The Spring In Fall

Deb: It’s almost October and spring is in my heart. If you are a regular reader, you know that our spring, our actual May of spring, was decimated by the sudden loss of a dear and darling friend. His death coloured our summer with reconnection. We picked up the phone, messaged on FB, and emailed friends whom we love and adore but don’t see  often. And we did the same for those friends whose frequency of visits we thrive on. We couldn’t get enough of seeing those we loved or were just starting to love. It wasn’t just our thrust of motion that put this connection into place. It was all around us, with everyone we knew, the need to see someone and make a memory.

This September my parents celebrated their 65th wedding anniversary. Within days of that, the boy turned 22, and my Mum-in-law had her birthday with us.  And bless their beaks, it sure kicked off a period of celebration. In the past little while as summer has turned to fall, we have celebrated love and marriage, the coming of a baby, and many many friends’ milestone birthdays. And the interesting thing, the part of all this that made the difference in me, is the fact that they were piled up! Literally. Calendar-wise. Celebration on top of each celebration. These events consumed days and nights and allowed only an hour or so between each celebration. It was like I was being brainwashed in the ways of celebration. There was a “Celebrate good times, come on!” cult that I was slowly and unwittingly becoming a part of.

I looked at my schedule, jam-packed with happy events and panicked around just how the hell I was going to keep all the cards, gifts, donations, dates and addresses straight. I am the type of person who loves an orderly day. I love order and I love to achieve it and laud it. But I am also fine if it dissolves into a pinch of chaos. Maybe ... organized chaos. But this celebralooza was jammed into every day and night for weeks! Seriously, weeks. So I dutifully went through the cards and celebratory offerings and lined them up on the stair-landing in neat piles, whisking each away to its appropriate event. 

This subway sandwich of celebration has been like a sweet dream. The kind of sweet dreams you had as a child. You would wake up having dreamed about the candy tree in your back yard. Candy tree. In your backyard. You ate it and did not get sick at all. These dreams are the very definition of what you first thought the word dream meant.

This recent period in my life has felt like a very real dream. The kind of dream you wake up from not believing it was a dream at all. It’s as if life is circling me and daring to show itself. And all the faces at each event are 500watt bulbs with wine in their hands. Smiling like they can’t help it. And they can’t.  A baby is coming, a son is 22, a friend is turning 60 and the vibe is exactly the same. Friends, family, strangers. Each party was as if it was everyone’s very first party. Everyone was living unashamedly.

And it makes me feel like the earth is waking up and starting again. And yet the leaves are falling and the earth is sleeping for a while. 

Just what I needed to remind me.

Barbara: Oh, I love this, Deb. I love the celebration in it, the appreciation. I love that you finally get a season of joyous occasions and that they are all so lovely and wonderful and fulfilling. It’s funny when life offers up a veritable smorgasbord of events for us to feast on. I’ve had periods of my life like that. I was telling you earlier about getting jobs all in a row: the whole “it rains/it pours” scenario. But I think, after so much tragic and awful rain, you deserve the warm sun and the new buds of discovery. Soak it up, my darling friend. Spring into it!

The Rituals That Sustain Us

Deb: The other day as we got ready to go to our friend’s funeral I was struck by ritual. Certainly not ritual in any religious or traditional way, but the rituals in our lives that keep us from ripping and tearing in two. I’m talking about the rituals that escape our notice—the daily tasks that are like breathing to us. I thought as I stood in front of my closet, choosing shoes and a dress, “What are you doing, what does it matter!!?” As I styled my hair and put on eye-shadow, I looked into the mirror and was stopped by the ludicrous nature of the moment. I couldn’t help but ask myself, “Why the hell am I putting makeup on? Why in hell am I reaching for earrings?”

Dressing for a friend’s funeral... I cannot conceive of a sadder thought. As my husband and I walked back and forth silently in our bedroom as we prepared ourselves to leave, it seemed like a most bizarre empty exercise. And then I thought, “What is the alternative? Do we wake up on the day of a loved one’s funeral and go out the door, unfed and unclothed?” Of course not. But still it felt banal.

And afterwards as we piled into the car, the lumps returning to our stomachs in anticipation of what lay ahead, I realized that the ritual of getting ready to go was a kind of glue that was holding us together. There for a few minutes, in a painful world full of minutes, the ritual was our friend. We were making choices and as a result we were grounding ourselves in our lives, the only lives we know, the lives we can be sure of at this nanosecond in time. We were clinging to the normalcy, grateful for the silent comfort in each other’s eyes in this specific second in time. 

In the last days we have been reminded once again that it is only in the seconds of now that we can find any sure peace. It is only in the very moment of a glance into your loved ones eyes that you know you have each other. That is all we ever have, and we have been reminded of that fact in our friend’s untimely death. So we hug and touch each other as we pass from shower to front door without saying a word. We are locked in the understanding of how much we appreciate this moment in time that we still have, however painful it is.

And I wondered if the ritual didn’t act as our first friend as we return gratefully and reluctantly to the land of the living. I pondered that maybe ritual is always the first step from the moment someone you love dies. You are shocked and bloody grief-stricken, but in the hours following the news, you will put on the kettle and pick up the phone and pull something out of the fridge for dinner. You will live. Your stomach will feel like lead and your head will swirl with images and memories. You will take a shower, dry off and dress, without even noticing, so far will your mind be from reality. But you will do it.

I have always observed that generally North Americans are not good at the grieving process and have acknowledged that many other countries and cultures are good at it. I have always thought how healing it must be to be able to weep and wail and scream with fellow mourners and to do little else in the way of functioning. But then I got to thinking. When the weeping and wailing is over, aren’t we all the same? Don’t we all go into that place of great void. Doesn’t our emptiness consume us as we realize finally after the formal mourning period that our loved one is not coming back? We go through the shock, the pain, the divulging, the guilt, the regret and the agony of it. We’re tossed like empty shells washed up on the shore, into the funeral and reception where we have scraps of well-meaning but empty forgotten conversation with each other. We search each other’s eyes for meaning and for explanation, and then we go home saddened at finding none. And we put on the kettle and make tea and toast and we find ourselves comforted whether we want to be or not. And in those moments we are back to living. We are reminded again that life is so very fragile.

But we are also reminded that life is in these moments.

Barbara: Deb, it’s funny that you should speak of this. Because I totally remember thinking the same thing when I was getting ready for Paul’s funeral. It felt so bizarre and weird and wrong. And yet, I did find some solace in it—which then made me feel guilty!

You have expressed this process with such beauty and eloquence it actually hurts my heart. And then you take it one step further and find the grace in it. The imperative necessity to the living. I want to thank you for that. So utterly breathtaking, I want to weep and wail and then laugh and cheer. Just … thank you.