Day 91: Newton's Cradle

May 30, 2014

Happy-makings of today include:

-meeting a friend for coffee before work
-the ridiculousness of my dog after being shaved for the summer: spotted skin, lion's tail, floppy ears, softball sized skull, impressive mustache, squirrel paws, scent of baby powder
-hearing a cuckoo bird outside of my apartment and thinking of Gareth
-kind words from several friends online- a missing of me, a validation of continued sobbing, and encouragement to keep writing
-an offer of homemade chicken soup
-a photo of a friend's adorable dog posted and a comment that always makes me laugh
-that gal-danged dog magnet set sent to me by a friend a couple of days ago...still funny
-connecting with my sister, my mom, and a friend from middle/high school, all with laughs included

I remarked to my friend last night that it feels like I have a split personality. Although instead of being one personality while the other sleeps, I am acutely aware of being both in every moment.

There's the person who recognizes the enjoyment of the things I listed above.  She smiled when she heard the cuckoo bird. I mean to say the corners of her mouth actually moved up a bit on each side, in a real smile. She laughed on the phone with her mom. I mean to say genuine laughing sounds came from her belly. Her teeth showed while she laughed. She saw the groomer place her dog on the marbled floor and watched as her dog's paws ran in place for several moments before picking up traction and clicking their way towards her and she laughed. She knows how to laugh. She hasn't forgotten.

While she's laughing, though, there's the other person who is still sitting in the chair. The one who can't will herself to smile or hold her arms out for her dog. The one who feels nothing at all but the absolute desire to not be here. To not exist. She is uninterested- no, incapable- of having any kind of small talk with the groomer. "Here," she wants to say, "keep my dog. I don't care. I have to go lie down now."  She walks in tar. She wants to collapse. She is in shock. She is bereaved. She is done. She is done. She is done.

There is a fine balancing point between the two. "You look great!" my doctor said to me the other day. "You look happy." I was tipped just slightly over to the first person. The one capable of feeling happy. How would she know that 20 minutes later I'd be having a hard time catching my breath between sobbing? Tip went the scale in the other direction.

"I'm worried about you. I'm worried you might do something stupid." Of course. I had been inconsolable in my office, head on my desk, saying "I don't think I can do this anymore. I really don't know how much longer I can do this." How could it be known that an hour later the scales would tip, just enough, just a tiny bit to the other side, so that I was able to walk my dog and have a feeling of peace sweep over me. I was able to stop and talk to another dog owner and genuinely show interest. I was tired, but I felt like I was going to be ok.

This pendulum makes wide, sweeping motions at times, making it appear as I hang on to it that I will stay on one side or the other indefinitely. It's hard to remember it will swing back. Other times it is active. More like a game of crack-the-whip and a moment of despair is countered quickly by rest and then laughter, or a moment of laughter dies and is arrested by sudden sobbing.

It's exhausting.

My science teacher had one of these on her desk. And I remember bringing one of the balls up and letting it go- watching the energy transfer back and forth, back and forth. Click. Click. Click. Click. The harder the initial impact, the longer the duration of movement. Click. Click. Click. But eventually, if you're patient enough to watch it all, click click, they will slow down, click. And stop.

And this is what I imagine when I am dashed back and forth between brief moments of joy and long moments of anguish. The balance may not be exact, but the moving from one to the other does happen, and I'm told (and I believe, at least I want to believe), that in time it will shift to where there is more joy than despair.

This is good news.

Because, seriously. I mean honestly. I can't believe as human beings we are designed to withstand the type of discomfort I'm experiencing. And I can try to minimize it by imagining the discomfort of people with "real tragedies" or "real losses"- measuring my loss against theirs and telling myself I know nothing of actual grief. But the fact of the matter is I am drowning here. I am under the heaviest of weights I can imagine and there are moments when I feel like I may suffocate.

Then I go back a few days or weeks and find a piece of writing I did where the grief rested and the joy sprang to life, even if it was just long enough for me to write a small piece and hit "post." Joy is there. It is not gone just because I can't feel it in the moment. It is still and waiting as the energy passes through and propels me out to the side, free floating, stomach dropping- but knowing I will again make contact. I will lift myself from the ground. I will spring up. I will hold my arms out and I will experience joy.

Day 90: When Great Trees Fall

Maya Angelou died yesterday. A surrogate mother, sister, and friend to more people than I can imagine. A woman of good counsel, strong spirit, and gifted with words. I think about all of the people missing her today. The emptiness left which is felt because of her great presence while she was here.

I've been missing Gareth a lot in the last few days and really feeling the empty places created by his absence. I am, as I was recently reminded, a spiritual being experiencing my humanity. We have this great capacity to love. And a great capacity to feel loss. I am gutted by both at the moment.

Maya Angelou and Gareth never met, of course, but something tells me she would have loved his humanness. She would have gazed upon his face with all of that love and acceptance pouring out of her and he would have wrapped himself up in it. She would have understood his struggles and delighted in the way he used poetry to remain tethered. I just know this is true.

I think about her, I think about him, when I read her poem "When Great Trees Fall." Here is someone who knew grief, and had enough in her lifetime to completely flatten her. And still she rose. Like dust, she rose. Like air, she rose. She rose. She rose. She rose.

As will I. As will all who are going through their day, mourning their losses, existing as two people: the one who laughs at a casual joke, bends down to greet a dog, and makes it through a work day, and the one who is deadened inside, wishing to dissolve into the empty spaces threatening to swallow them whole. We will rise. Like dust, we will rise. Like air, we will rise. We will rise. We will rise. We will rise.  

"They existed," she reminds us.  "They existed./ We can be. Be and be/ better. For they existed."

p.s. Ms. Angelou- Gareth loved nothing more than to sit down and collaborate on a good piece of writing. You know...if you get the time.  

When Great Trees Fall
Maya Angelou

When great trees fall,
rocks on distant hills shudder,
lions hunker down
in tall grasses,
and even elephants
lumber after safety.

When great trees fall
in forests,
small things recoil into silence,
their senses
eroded beyond fear.

When great souls die,
the air around us becomes
light, rare, sterile.
We breathe, briefly.
Our eyes, briefly,
see with
a hurtful clarity.
Our memory, suddenly sharpened,
examines,
gnaws on kind words
unsaid,
promised walks
never taken.

Great souls die and
our reality, bound to
them, takes leave of us.
Our souls,
dependent upon their
nurture,
now shrink, wizened.
Our minds, formed
and informed by their
radiance,
fall away.
We are not so much maddened
as reduced to the unutterable ignorance
of dark, cold
caves.

And when great souls die,
after a period peace blooms,
slowly and always
irregularly. Spaces fill
with a kind of
soothing electric vibration.
Our senses, restored, never
to be the same, whisper to us.
They existed. They existed.
We can be. Be and be
better. For they existed.

Day 88: Swept Under

May 27, 2014

Today felt like week one. Crying so hard my teeth were chattering. Wave after wave after wave. Knees scraped. Knuckles bruised. Palms bloodied. Water in the lungs. Thinking I may not make it up for air.

What triggered it?
What happened? Why?

That's a good question. And I guess it's important to know, at least from my experience, that sometimes we'll slide back into the very deepest grief, without warning and without a trigger.

This is why grief is a bitch.

I was reminded yesterday by the most gentle of souls that I haven't had a break since this all began. I was reminded that I had just had my orientation for a new job the day Gareth fell, and missing the first week of work to be with him and his family in Gyeongju, I showed up and jumped in to new classes in week 2. A new job. A new town. I signed up for Korean classes twice a week- a 7 hour commitment, including travel there and back. I signed up to volunteer once a week with university students with special needs.

I thought it best to keep showing up and plow ahead. Perhaps there's only so much showing up and plowing ahead one can do in the midst of great loss and sadness.

Today I feel leveled. Flattened. Back at ground zero and wondering if I have what it takes to continue doing this. I cannot comprehend this level of pain day after day for much longer, and there is no throwing in the towel for me. There is no giving up. There is no ending things. There is not even a stiff drink at the end of the night as a possibility. I am committed to waking up every morning and living, no matter how bitterly painful it is.

Before I entertain the idea that this will be what life feels like for "at least the first year," I'm taking the advice of a friend and lightening my load- a load that I thought was considerably light anyway. A load I thought I had no right to lighten in the first place. "Bridget," a co-worker reminded me today when I was feeling inadequate for asking someone to cover a clinic for me, "plenty of people take off for an entire SEMESTER for this kind of thing. Don't be so hard on yourself."

I can be so hard on myself.  This is not news to me.

Today I practiced (again) asking for help and then accepting it. Two of my clinics were covered while I stayed in the office and just wept and wept. And in some ways, this lesson of asking for what I need and accepting it when it's given is a really valuable one. It's possible that I may have been the type of person that was so self-sufficient that it takes being flattened like this to be open to a lesson on asking for help. That I have to be so desperate for the help only a situation like this would allow me to take it- readily and without pause. I must remember this in the future. Asking for help is important. Accepting it is equally important.

I'm also open to listening to the observations of others, because I can't always see it. My vision is certainly clouded with grief right now, and I may not see that I'm exhausted, or too busy, or needing more time to just relax, meditate, sleep....I may need a day of sleep. Nothing else. I may need several of those.

I'm quitting my Korean class. What's $120? And it will be there for me when I'm ready. I'm stepping down from volunteering. It, too, will be there for me when I'm ready. I'm making space to steep myself in the things that will bring me comfort and alleviate stress. I'm trying to practice self-care, even as I want so desperately to be disconnected from this self that is feeling so much pain.

Every possible state is uncomfortable- if I think of the past, I'm filled with longing. The present is almost unbearable. And the future is something my pain tells me I don't want. Do you know that feeling of discomfort and restlessness when you have a fever and your skin hurts? Your bones ache? Your stomach twists and your mouth tastes of the sour indication of vomit? That's grief. That's it all of the time. It gets louder and it gets softer. But there it is.

So I will do my best at the moment to go back to the early days of this. Drink water. Sleep. Call people and ask for what I need. Accept help when it's offered. Pray. Write. Allow the waves to come. And trust that this, even this, too shall pass.

I have 14 more days of teaching. And 31 days until I leave to go back to St. Louis, where a support system bigger than I can imagine waits for me.

I can do this.

I can do this.

I.

can.

do.

this.

Day 87: The Things I Kept

If I were to do a blog post about the things Gareth gave me, I'd be writing for days. Gareth was a gift-giver. Little things. Funny things. He was constantly on the lookout for things he thought I'd like: a funny pair of socks, a little stuffed animal to hang from my bag, a fabric pencil case with a dog on it, pajamas with 6 cartoon owls on it and the message "I am really feeling fresh./The sky is very fine for today/even the wild smells so sweet" (he knew how I'd laugh when I read this), a pink fuzzy blanket with a hood and rabbit ears attached to it, a beaded bracelet, a woven leather bracelet, a green and black barrette for my hair, a navy travel blanket to keep me warm when we picnicked at night or while I was on a plane, a toy mini cooper like the real one I had back home (only red), a notebook with old Korean advertisements printed on it...I could go on. And on. And on.

I have these things, of course. My apartment is filled with things Gareth touched. Things Gareth saw and thinking of me, purchased and placed in my hands ("Close your eyes! Ok. Now...hold out your hands...") or left on my bed ("Here, sweetheart. Wear this when you sleep. We will meet again in 5 days!") or hid inside of a small box in my bag ("Surprise! xx G") These are the things I have which remind me of him.

When Gareth died, his mother, father, brother and I went through his apartment and sorted his things. A pile was made of things to take back to New Zealand and things to give away. I felt happy to be able to give his family the stories related to the things they chose- where Gareth purchased them, what was happening that day, certain conversations I remember about him choosing specific items. That shirt was his favorite. We picked those ceramic pieces up at Hwagae Market. He meant to mail that bowl as a wedding gift. He picked out that wooden carved key chain for his dad and for friends back home. I bought that jacket for him as a surprise in Geoje. With every item there was a story.

There were very few things I took home from his apartment. I had so many things already, and found myself saying "No, you take that. Take that with you," when Gareth's mom would ask, "Do you want to take this home with you?" They should have every piece of their son that they could carry and that they wanted. However, when I lifted his pillow to my face and took in that familiar scent, I heard myself say, "Is it ok if I take this?" And it's been that pillow that I've hugged each night since the night I came back to Hayang.

His shoes were buried the weekend before last, along with one of the bracelets he wore almost daily. (See last post.) When someone dies, there is a lot of letting go of their things. The things they had. The things they wore. Dishes they ate from. Glasses they drank from. The bed they slept on. The books they read. The toothbrush they used before leaving their place for the last time. Their keys. Their car. Their supply of paper towels and toilet paper in the storage cabinet. Their laundry hanging on the line. The dirty clothes in the basket. Trinkets. Receipts. Recycling to go out. The junk drawer that everyone has. The almost empty bottle of cologne. The sheets on the bed. The drinks in the fridge. Let go. Toss out. Give away. Let go. And let go. And let go.

A few things we keep.


I'd like to shift, here, and write directly to Gareth. Feel free to read. You are not intruding.

Dear Gareth,

This morning I finally pulled the navy t-shirt, the one that smelled so much of you weeks ago and has since lost its scent, from your pillow and tossed it in the wash. I peeled off the shirt and removed your navy pillow case and could see the marks of your sweat. Hot summer nights in Korea. Perhaps a bad dream or two. Your pillow was stained with nights of restless sleeping.

It was also a bit moldy and I was charged with wondering if I'd cover it back up again with the pillow case and shirt (which are currently on the line to dry) or if I'm ready to let go of it. The shirt no longer smells of you, and in the past few nights I've fallen asleep holding your pillow and woken up in the morning holding my new dog. Perhaps I can let it go.

I have two other shirts of yours that I took from your apartment: a grey one that you purchased at UniQlo and the one with the ship schematics on it. You wore that grey shirt a lot and if I really hold it to my face and breathe in, there is still a faint scent of you.

All of your watches went home with your parents. Your mom wears the one she and I went in on as a Christmas present for you the year before last. You had so many watches. I meant to find a little box for you to store them in, but never did. You liked to line them up on your desk sometimes and talk about each one. Watches made your mind slow down and feel good. I will always like watches because of that.

I have the wooden bracelet you wore often. And the leather cuff bracelet you bought when we were walking around the streets of Busan at night. I loved, loved, loved that bracelet and you were so thrilled to have something that you considered so unique and different.

 

  

I moved the little silver piece over and now I can make it small enough for me to wear, which I do each time I'm wearing something brown.  I like remembering the specific place we were and the look on your face when you bought this. It makes me happy and it makes me feel connected to you.

In another trip to Busan, we split off for a bit to do some Christmas shopping for each other. 

I headed underground and found a man selling gifts and antiques. He had been to New Zealand several times and we sat down and enjoyed oranges while he told me of his travels there and I told him about us.

 

I picked up these odd little hand massagers because I thought they'd be something you'd find interesting. We ended up putting them on a shelf in the apartment in Hadong and they stayed with me when you moved, even though they were a gift for you. I have them on my bookshelf in my bedroom now. 

Remember when we went to Hwagae Market and you found that brass Buddha head with the 4 faces on it? There was a man selling brass pieces on the side of the road just as you enter the marketplace and we stopped to have a look. I took a photo of that moment, and I've always thought you are so strikingly handsome in this particular photo.

 

I remember that you almost didn't join me. We woke up that morning and you had a frustrating experience with your computer that left you in kind of a funk. It was one of those moments where you weren't really quite yourself, and what I learned about myself from being with you is that I am truly a person who is able to take care of myself at the risk of upsetting someone I love. "I'm going on an adventure!" I announced that morning. Do you remember? "I'd love for you to go with me, but if you're not feeling up to it, feel free to stay here. I'll be back in a couple of hours. I'd like to check out Hwagae Market." I learned in that moment, and several others with you, that I am no longer the person who shuts down and gets paralyzed by someone else's dysfunction. And I mean that lovingly. In that moment, you were not functioning properly. And I loved you. But I wasn't going to put a stop to my desire to experience joy and sit in an apartment to watch you become increasingly frustrated with yourself and your computer. I look back on that and I'm grateful to you for showing me that I have become the person I've always wanted to be- someone who can deeply love others, but not at the expense of my own well-being. You showed me that.


In the market, you were drawn to those faces- the 4 faces, and it struck me (without me saying so) that you had something in common with this piece. The strikingly different moods of each side. A small turn to the left and the face goes from overjoyed to despair. That was part of you, Gareth. These faces remind me of that day, and of how you decided to join me as I was about to head out the door. I watched your intensity dissipate and your face eventually soften on the 25 minute ride there. I watched the softness return. And then the joy. I watched you shift and was ready when you came back to me. To us. To the world.

I have this piece on my bookshelf, as well. It sits atop the wooden box that my friend Chris made me last year. I have it turned so the really happy face- the mouth open face- is what I see. I like to remember you happy.

Something else I have are the little mask magnets you picked up from the mask museum in Namhae. Remember that? We just happened to pass it as we made our way off the island and we pulled over to check it out.

There was something strange about that parking lot. What was it? Loud cicadas? I think that was it. And the museum was about to close. We had perhaps 15 minutes to run through it, which we did. At the counter/gift shop before we left you picked up a few things: a mask on a string for yourself to wear, one for sister Soon, (perhaps I few others for gifts?), and a pair of magnet masks. Those went on your fridge and remained there until the Tuesday before you died when you moved to another apartment. I found them in your desk drawer. You must have stashed them there for the move and never gotten around to putting them out. You only spent 3 nights in the new place before you had your accident.

 

I also brought your Kiwi magnet back home with me. All three magnets are on my ridiculously small refrigerator. The mask ones are next to a laminated collage of photos of us.

Finally, I have our dinosaurs. You know- the ones that sat on my kitchen table and we played with like two kids while eating breakfast together. We named them, but I can't for the life of me remember the names. You brought the yellow one with you and the green and red one stayed with me.

I don't have a kitchen table at my new place, so they sit on the base of a white lamp which sits atop my microwave which is on top of my tiny refrigerator. I'm telling you, my new place is small. It's not the 3-bedroom, 2-bath, full kitchen that we enjoyed in Hadong. Although it's not your tiny one-room in Gyeongju, either. Remember that? Holy heck. You wanted more space.

So those are the few things I kept of yours, babe. Sometimes I think back to specific things and panic that I don't have them- the rust sweater, for example- but I realize the real connection is not in things at all. The real connection is in stories. In memories. In feelings. And I have those. I always will.

I'm sick with grief again, Gareth. It lost its intensity for a bit there, and then it came back. I just miss you. I really, really do. And I'm in shock that you're gone. And even bigger than that, I'm faced with the ugly truth that there was probably no narrative that would end in you getting better and us living out the rest of our years, long years, in one another's company. This is why my letting go of you in January was so very, very hard. Because I didn't want to. And I didn't want to believe that you were not accepting help. But you weren't. And you didn't. And now you can't.

I can live without you. I can move on. I know this. I just don't want to. What I want is not possible in so many ways, and most likely would not have been possible even if you were still alive. And that's layers and layers of sadness for me, babe. Because I know how much you loved me. How angry you were at yourself. I can forgive you. And most days I think I have. But I have a real hard time forgiving the Universe for giving me something so beautiful, so wonderful, so incredibly spirit-feeding, and giving me along with it the reality of a flaw so deep that everything would be snatched away in an instant.

I have no idea how this pain will soften. I feel it so deeply (we both felt things so deeply) that I can't imagine it will end. And I can't see a way out. The only way out is through. The only way out is through. I repeat that to myself again and again. The only way out is through.



I wish you could have seen that.

Day 86: Tired of Pretending

May 25, 2014

Here's the reality. Here's the moment. I'm tired of pretending I'm ok. I'm exhausted from making myself get up each day and get out of bed. I'm weighed down from the grief and I'm angry at feeling tricked that it will pass when there are moments of enjoyment- laughing at something funny, enjoying the company of a friend, or watching my dog.

If I don't play along with "it's getting better and this will pass," I feel like I'm viewed as someone who thinks negatively or likes being stuck here. I can't imagine any one likes this feeling. On any level.

I constantly feel like I'm going to throw up. I have that just about to throw up feeling. All of the time.  And the deep sobbing. The deep sobbing has returned. The crying when I'm not expecting it and the sobbing that leaves me feeling completely wiped out.

"Try meditation," a well-meaning friend advised. I do that.

"You should think about what to be grateful for." I make a f-ing gratitude list each night. I do.

"Why don't you just get out and be with people?" I do that. Do you think I really want to be anywhere? I don't. But I go. To the story slam (and I participate), to a baseball game (and I talk to people), to work (and I engage students), to dinner with friends (and I eat.) I go because I make myself. I'm trying. I really am.

"Maybe you should just allow yourself to feel your feelings." Um. Have you seen me cry? I've lost the ability to stand while weeping outside of a subway station. I've slid down to the ground while leaning against the wall in the hallway where I go for Korean class. I've broken down in the middle of an otherwise upbeat conversation. If you've spent any time with me in the past 86 days, chances are you've seen me cry. Trust me. I'm feeling.

"I heard if you keep yourself busy."
"Take some time to just rest at home."
"Get a dog."
"Go for a run."
"Take yoga classes. Yoga helps."
"Breathe. Just breathe through it."
"Get out of yourself and be of service to others."
"Are you reading about grief? Reading about it helps."
"How about a counselor?"

I'm doing it. I'm doing it. I'm doing it.

I.

am.

doing.

it.


And I'm tired. I'm exhausted. This feels like the worst possible nightmare and I can't wake up. I can't get out of it. The pain is not easing.

I've had lighter moments in this process. I've had days of joy and periods of knowing this will pass. And I write about that when I'm there.

Something tells me it's just as important to write about this- where I am right now- to show that the grieving process is not linear. I didn't get "through the rough part." I moved away from it. And I moved back into it. And I'll move away from it again, I'm sure.

But in the moment, I'm done. I'm through. I want to give up and fall to the floor and say "I can't do this anymore." I want to break down. I want to become unhinged. I want to stop pretending I can hold it together, because sometimes I don't feel like I can.

It surprises me, this inner instinct to stay alive and to keep going. Because I keep doing it. Every day. I keep doing it. And that's not strength. And that's not perseverance. That's just a miracle. God's grace. The grace of God.

God, be with me. Guide me. Protect me.

Gareth, I can't tell you how much I miss you. I want you to come back. Come back to me. Whole. And healed. And please. Let's make this work.

Rituals After Dying Pt. 2/Hadong

On the 18th of May I met with a small group from Hadong for a memorial I planned for Gareth. (See blog post titled "Rituals After Dying Pt. 1). It was beautiful- something Gareth would have been incredibly proud of and honored by.

Gareth's shoes, "slosh ball" card, bracelet, and a laminated card including a photo and a bit about Gareth were placed in a box. I was happy to be gathering with people who knew Gareth well, and who were truly like family to him, in the small town where we met.

Sealing these few things in a box proved a bit harder emotionally than I had anticipated. It was another wave of letting go that I don't feel prepared for. But I don't feel prepared for any of it, really. Any of the letting go. I hate having to do any of it, be it with tangible things like his shoes and the bracelet he wore almost daily, or the intangible, like the idea that he would have gotten better and we would still be together. Letting go sucks. It just does. And without an alternative, I turn to the ritual of gathering with people who feel their own loss and celebrate our dear friend.

I asked Soon to translate the message into Korean, in hopes that if/when the box is discovered, the person who finds it will understand the importance of its contents:

I took the subway into Daegu the day before I left for Hadong in search of some white silk I could use to wrap the box. I was directed to a market place, but being Sunday late afternoon, almost all of the stalls were closed. In my running dialogue that I tend to have with both God and Gareth, I asked to be directed to someplace where I could find the cloth. And here is where it will sound like I'm fabricating a story, but this is how it happened: I walked perhaps 20 minutes, down one street, turning on another, and another, straight ahead and again turning down another, until I found myself in front of a tiny closet-sized store selling curtains. In the center of the room was a table and on that table was piled white cloth, just the kind I was looking for.

As I stood outside the shop looking up the words in Korean I would need to make the transaction, a young man approached and asked, in English, if I needed help. He and I entered the store and inquired about the white fabric. When I explained what I needed it for, the shopkeeper reached under the pile and pulled out a special fabric. "This is the traditional fabric used for funerals," he said. Of course. I recognized it as the fabric used to cover Gareth's coffin. And here it was- in the curtain store, that I somehow happened upon as though I knew where I was headed. I purchased $20 worth.

 

The night before I made programs with lyrics of the songs we'd hear and written messages from several Hadong friends who could not be with us. I also made a cd for each of us attending the memorial. It felt incredibly good to be planning and gathering things for a party for Gareth- almost like I was planning a surprise birthday party. Man, I miss him.

We met at David and Lin's apartment around 5:30p.m. (pictured here in front row: Sheldon, Brennand, Soon, Lin, David, and David and Lin's son/back row: me, So Yeon, Lin's daughter visiting from Thailand, and Dave.) Soon we made the 15 minute drive to Jeondo, the town where Gareth lived when we first met.

We pulled into Gareth's old apartment parking lot. Lots of memories here of the very early days of our relationship. The first time I visited here, he took me on a walk behind his apartment to his favorite place in all of Korea (this is what he told me), and this is where we'd bury his shoes. 

 

After walking through the tennis courts behind Gareth's apartment, we walked up these stairs- the same stairs Gareth and I walked on that night.

The sun was setting just as it was the first time Gareth took me here, and here, with our friends behind me and his belongings wrapped in white cloth in a box held in my arms, I remembered that evening well. Gareth wrote about it:

You came this evening to my apartment
in black flats and skinny jeans.

We walked through the gathering dusk
up a narrow flight of steps behind

the courts, into hugging hills.
Steps clanged under footfalls, and

the path was blocked by a tree. We climbed
over and around before the long grass

and a fence and a road that looked
as though a painter put it there. We held

hands amid the ministrations of hills
past small farms and the round houses

of ancestors, downstream although
we couldn't see the river, revealed below

the bone yard, curved like grass-tombs.
We walked, hearts huddling, hush-step

past pines and deciduous tree
leaves beginning to tip out green libations

to the sun, running down to yellow,
brown and red. We paused each few breaths

to hold our peace in arms close to chests
and let whatever moment chose to manifest

itself run down towards horizon. And
then we came to a grave giving back

its grass mound to the hill. The nearby
farm, held in the hills' hug, stood abloom

with white flowers as we sat, and you
grew like an orchestra to joy.

How nice it was to be bringing our Hadong family here. How nice it was to share about that night with Gareth- how long it took us to reach our final destination because we'd stop and hug for ridiculously long moments every few minutes.  It is not with rose-tinted glasses of looking back on the past that I say we were incredibly in love. This is just the fact of the matter. Gareth and Bridget were in love.

I purchased this rainbow umbrella for Soon. Gareth considered Soon like a true sister. A long-time resident of Hadong and angel to the foreign community there, Soon was an important part of Gareth's life in Korea. His favorite umbrella was his rainbow one, and I suspect he lost it (as he had once before and replaced it) as I didn't find it in his apartment after he died. He'd go on and on about how he loved this particular umbrella, and when I saw one in my campus store, I knew Soon needed it to shield herself from the sun on the day we gathered to be with Gareth's spirit. He would have offered his to her had he been there and had it with him.

 

Almost there! It's about a 10 minute walk from behind his apartment to the actual place he wanted to show me.

 

And here we are- a cemetery that overlooks a small river, rolling hills, and an industrial site that funded Gareth's teaching position. Gareth told me he liked to come here and write. Or sit and think. It was a place where his often busy mind quieted. We'd picnic up here from time to time and even after he moved to Gyeongju, we'd visit here during a weekend visit to Hadong. 

We found a spot that we thought was right for the burial, out of sight of the curious farmers nearby. Bren was nominated to begin digging and we set up a place to sit.

We began with the Flight of the Conchords song "Friends"- perhaps not a traditional funeral song, but Gareth had introduced me to the comedic duo from New Zealand and his love of humor is all over these lyrics. There was no better way to feel the presence of our friend with us than by enjoying a good laugh in this way.

Click here to watch the video/hear the song

Next we each shared a word that came to mind when we thought about Gareth...

funny...

romantic...
humble...
poet...
creative...

Soon reading a poem by Thich Nhat Hanh

 And Soon read a poem by Thich Nhat Hanh:

This body is not me.
I am not limited by this body.

I am life without boundaries.

I have never been born,
and I have never died.

Look at the ocean and the sky
filled with stars, manifestations
from my wondrous true mind.

Since before time, I have been free.

Birth and death are only doors
through which we pass, sacred
thresholds on our journey.

Birth and death are a game
of hide-and-seek. So laugh with me,
hold my hand, let us say good-bye,
say good-bye, to meet again soon.

We meet today. We will meet
again tomorrow. We will meet
at the source every moment.
We meet each other
in all forms of life. 

 

Our friend Melinda asked to have the following song played:

"Sailing Round the Room"- Emmylou Harris (click to listen)

We read comments from "Cousin" Isaac, now living in Vietnam:

Me, Gareth, and Isaac on the beach in Geoje

I chose this quote (a modified form of "Go West Young Man") because Gareth said this about Nate Fisher, the main character from the TV show Six Feet Under. Like Nate, Gareth was an idealist who struggled for a lot of his life, and while we're all aware that he had his demons, it needs to be said that he had his angels, too. His poetry, his ability to see the beauty in all facets with the world, his love of travel, and most especially nature. He went to Korea, and he grew up with the country.

"[Wellington] is not a place to live in. The rents are high, the food is bad, the dust is disgusting and the morals are deplorable. Go [to Korea], young man, go [to Korea] and grow up with the country."

-Horace Greeley

David reading comments from Isaac.

And from Zach, who was traveling:

Gareth, we didn’t know you long, or as well as many, but in our short time together you made an indelible impression on our lives. Whenever we came to Hadong, you were always there with a ready smile and a kind word, and that sonorous accent made anything you said even more interesting to hear. Your sneaky cricket power made us all back up a step when you came to bat, and after the game had inevitably yielded to a lot of friendly conversations, your poetic view of life made us come in that same step to listen better. We truly hope you have found peace, and as the song says: “We’ll meet again” some day, I’m sure.

And from Nicole, now in Canada:

I remember the first day I met Gareth - he walked all the way up the hill to your middle school for a game of sloshball. That first day I discovered his passion for watches, his keen eye for matching things (a running theme that stayed with us throughout all other times spent together), and his extremely friendly attitude. He fit in immediately! Not long after did I have the joy of shopping with him in Hadong, a joy I know you have witnessed a number of times! I was looking for prizes for my kiddies and realized that I was shopping with a REAL LIFE ADULT-CHILD!!! More so than Martin! hahaha we must have spent thirty minutes in one shop checking out the guns and trinkets! Needless to say, we had a lot of fun. That experience helped me put together his bday gift bag full of fun stuff, including a pellet gun and "boing boing" socks - It was just as much fun buying gifts FOR him as it was shopping WITH him. 

Martin, Quinn and I truly discovered his free spirit on our trip to Hwagae to see the beautiful cherry blossoms that year. While walking through Ssangaesa, we "lost" Gareth as he ventured in his own time and place, photographing, enjoying, and taking in the beauty of the temple. I admire that in people- independence. We had a 2-hour lunch by the river, followed by a 2-hour car ride home (terrible Korean-holiday traffic!!!) Gareth adorned the car ride with his story telling skills… which was repeated… over… and over… and over… …until I fell asleep haha We lived, laughed and loved through many occasions. 

I loved how he would come to Hadong for an afternoon coffee, and would give us a call once in while which lead to dinner and sometimes even a ride home as he'd miss his bus. Throughout this time spent together, I believe he felt a very strong kinship with Martin. He trusted Martin. And I don't think (correct me if I'm wrong), but I don't think he trusted too many people

… And then the lovely Bridget arrives in Hadong! She-who-has-come-here-single-and-also-loves-coffee-and-and-writing-and-all-things-Gareth. It did not take long to recognize the amazingly bright spark between the two of you. "He was smitten by this amazing woman, who tried to deny just to what extent she felt the same." Isn't that right you truly were incredible together.  And you both are so lucky to have shared that love There are too many people in the world today who do not experience that love and friendship.

Brennand reading Nicole's message.

****

It breaks my heart to think that we will never meet again. (At least not in this lifetime.) Seriously thought we’d be crossing paths again… So many memories keep us close. You are family to me. My Hadong family. A place I call home.

I really am terrible at saying goodbyes. I wish I could be there, with Bridget and others, in your favorite place, to share this moment with people who knew you.

We love you, Gareth.

There’s one thing that I want you to know. I am so happy because when I pull out the picture or Martin and I that I keep in my wallet, I find your beautiful arm holding a bottle of Gatorade, photo-bombing the heck out of it!! It’s truly the perfect picture.

I miss you.

I love you.

Bridget, my heart goes out to you. You have been blessed by love that words cannot describe (Yet your photos are magical.) I am sorry I cannot be there today. Thank you for keeping us close and making us a part of this important moment in time.

Time.

Gareth, you loved time. You loved the KEEPERS of time. I will keep you in my heart for the rest of my time.

May you rest in peace.

Others sent video messages, like our friend Jackie, "The Mayor of Jinju" (seen below on her birthday last year).

It was so nice to have the voices and faces of these friends here with us to celebrate and remember Gareth.

Our sweet friend Dirk (pictured below with Soon) has since moved back to the U.S., as well. He sent a video message.

Listening to Dirk's video message.

Next we took turns reading a blog post I made a while back called "50 Things About Gareth"- and it was nice to be able to remember these things, laugh about them, and be reminded of similar stories among friends. (Click here for the link to 50 Things About Gareth). The sun was setting, and we were basked in the "golden light" that Gareth often pointed out at this time of day. We were in his favorite place at his favorite time of day. 

 

A moment of stillness while listening to Tracy Chapman's "The Promise":

"If you wait for me, then I'll come for you/Although I've traveled far, I always hold a place for you in my heart./If you think of me/If you miss me once in awhile/Then I'll return to you/I'll return and fill that space in your heart..."

(Click here to listen to the song)

 It shouldn't be any surprise that we were greeting by a very vocal cuckoo bird (뻐꾸기 새) in this middle of our ceremony. "KUH-KOO! KUH-KOO! KUH-KOO!" We all fell silent and took it in. Smiling. This little feathered friend showing up and having something to say. 

When Sheldon came to Gareth's memorial at Dongguk University, he told me "We'll be seeing Gareth again...yep! We will! In the Great Gettin' Up Morning! Yes, we will!" I love Sheldon. So did Gareth. And we appreciated his keen and deep knowledge of several topics, including highway systems and toll fares in Canada, Japan, and Korea and all things Gospel music. "In the great what?" I asked. "The Great Gettin' Up Morning! Wintley Phipps." Ah! He's referring to a song. Of course, I asked if he'd be willing to sing it in Hadong when I was putting the memorial together, and he graciously accepted. And he blew us away. Beautiful voice. Uplifting song. It was lovely.

(Click here to hear Wintley Phipps sing it)

 

Sheldon singing "Great Gettin' Up Mornin'"

 

After Sheldon sang, we buried the box of Gareth's things, along to Wintley Phipps recording of the same song.

 

It's not too deep, and I suspect it will be found in time. I'll remember it's placement by the large stone nearby.

After a sincere hug from me to each person there, we packed up and headed back down the path to our car. I felt light- happy. Like we put before us Gareth in his entirety and celebrated that person. We didn't shy away from the struggles we saw in him, nor did we get stuck by only looking there. Gareth was truly loved by this little Hadong family, for exactly who he was. And I believe he knew that.