My children's children

Sebastian, Isaac, and Wilder

I know that this isn't the most beautiful picture of Isaac with his raven hair and dark flashing eyes but it shows his aloof attitude towards his two younger cousins. These boys are around four years apart in age as were my three children. I remember Brendan saying, when we were visiting France's western coast and trying to entertain them all - a practically impossible task given their age differences - "I don't appreciate your feeble attempt to make me happy."

To die, to sleep --

Last year two of the closest people to my heart died ~ Rob and Susan. 

I will never be the same.  I feel as if I have lost my talent to alight and write. I've decided - when I remember - to write poems and such in my blog to let my friends know that I am still thinking. 

I am reading "A Single Rose" by French author Muriel Barbery. In it I found this:

"The hardest thing, it turns out, is not trying to be happy without the person you loved... It's changing, no longer being who you were with that person... I feel as if I'm betraying myself"

I feel as if I am treading water or perhaps my head is above ground, flitting around like a butterfly. Recently, Marlene sent me the poem "Summons" that reminds me of Machado's "Last Night as I Was Dreaming" and lastly "To sleep - perchance to dream" springs to mind. 

Hamlet by Shakespeare

To die, to sleep—

No more—and by a sleep to say we end

The heartache, and the thousand natural shocks

That flesh is heir to. ’tis a consummation

Devoutly to be wish’d. To die, to sleep—

To sleep—perchance to dream. Ay, there’s the rub!

For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,

When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,

Must give us pause—there’s the respect

That makes calamity of so long life.

Summons by Aurora Levins Morales

Last night I dreamed

ten thousand grandmothers

from the twelve hundred corners of the earth

walked out into the gap

one breath deep

between the bullet and the flesh

between the bomb and the family.

They told me we cannot wait for governments.

There are no peacekeepers boarding planes.

There are no leaders who dare to say

every life is precious, so it will have to be us.

They said we will cup our hands around each heart.

We will sing the earth’s song, the song of water,

a song so beautiful that vengeance will turn to weeping,

the mourners will embrace, and grief replace

every impulse toward harm.  

Ten thousand is not enough, they said,

so, we have sent this dream, like a flock of doves

into the sleep of the world. Wake up. Put on your shoes. 

You who are reading this, I am bringing bandages

and a bag of scented guavas from my trees. I think

I remember the tune. Meet me at the corner.

Let’s go. 

Last Night As I Was Sleeping by Antonio Machado

Last night as I was sleeping,

I dreamt—marvelous error!—

that a spring was breaking

out in my heart.

I said: Along which secret aqueduct,

Oh water, are you coming to me,

water of a new life

that I have never drunk?

Last night as I was sleeping,

I dreamt—marvelous error!—

that I had a beehive

here inside my heart.

And the golden bees

were making white combs

and sweet honey

from my old failures.

Last night as I was sleeping,

I dreamt—marvelous error!—

that a fiery sun was giving

light inside my heart.

It was fiery because I felt

warmth as from a hearth,

and sun because it gave light

and brought tears to my eyes.

Last night as I slept,

I dreamt—marvelous error!—

that it was God I had

here inside my heart.

Worrywart

I worried a lot. Will the garden grow, will the rivers
flow in the right direction, will the earth turn
as it was taught, and if not how shall
I correct it?

Was I right, was I wrong, will I be forgiven,
can I do better?

Will I ever be able to sing, even the sparrows
can do it and I am, well,
hopeless.

Is my eyesight fading or am I just imagining it,
am I going to get rheumatism,
lockjaw, dementia?

Finally I saw that worrying had come to nothing.
And I gave it up. And took my old body
and went out into the morning,
and sang.

~ Mary Oliver

Scattering Rob's Ashes

 

It's been over a year and four months since Rob's stupid tragic fall.  When he died, I read Joan Didion's "The Year of Magical Thinking" three times. She writes, “Grief turns out to be a place none of us know until we reach it…  We might expect that we will be prostrate, inconsolable, crazy with loss. We do not expect to be literally crazy, cool customers who believe their husband is about to return and need his shoes.”

I have not been able to give away Rob's best shoes or the suit he had custom-made in Viet Nam. I never shopped for him. We had different tastes and interests and often travelled alone. It's only now that I realize how much we shared - dinners most evenings with jazz simmering, market and restaurant outings, never-ending discussions about politics, the weather, health issues, and our children and grandsons.

The other day, I was reading old emails from Rob and in one, he was trying to rationalize travelling business class. I responded in three words, "Go for it!" He responded, "I love you." (We often had to give the other "permission" to be extravagant.) 

In practically every birthday card he gave me, he'd write "I really do love you." In every anniversary card, he'd write "30, 40, 50 years of living hell". This always made me smile. For years, I'd pressured him to express his love in words, and forever and a day, he told me that he couldn't. But then, most mornings, he'd wrap me in his arms. I miss his touch. I miss his smell. 

“I did not always think he was right nor did he always think I was right but we were each the person the other trusted.” We seldom fought but one of our arguments was about who would die first. He insisted that it would be him. I insisted it would be me.

I no longer receive a daily news report about all the horrible things happening in the world. Nor do I know if the sun will shine, the rain will fall. I no longer have a sound man, a confidant, a companion. I see older couples holding hands or chatting away and I am still angry. Rob and I thought we'd have more time - at least until we were eighty. The one good thing about his death is that he will not suffer mine. 

Dear Rob, you wanted your ashes spread in this forest. In our wedding ceremony, I refused to promise that I would obey you but in this, I will. On your last birthday, I posted a picture of you in cowboy gear. A friend, a colleague, wrote: "Rob should have been wearing a white cowboy hat in the photo… because that was the way you could tell one of the true good guys in a classic western. And Rob was one of the goodest guys it has ever been my privilege to know."

Weary

[D]o not be afraid to love, to open your heart to the world, even if it means risking heartbreak. For the sweetness of love far outweighs the bitterness of loss. And when the inevitable pain comes, find solace in the beauty of the world around you, in the simple pleasures of life, in the memories of love and laughter. For even in the midst of sorrow, there is still beauty to be found.    ~ Louise Erdrich

I am preparing for Rob's scattering on October 28th. He requested a particular forest near our French house. Michael and Isaac have arrived. Brendan, Jane, and Seb arrive late Friday night, and Gill, Derek, and Wilder arrive late Saturday. My quiet house will become a madhouse with toys scattered everywhere. I don't care. 

As there are not enough beds, I'll slip over to Mary's. 

I am still astonished that I am 75. How did I become so old? I grow more and more dependent on others' words as I cannot find my own. I'm a big fat mess inside and I tell myself to move slowly one step at a time. I flit from one activity to another.  Some form of expression is vital... Helen Luke writes. 

I will try to pick up my writing again but I resist. 

The tragedy of old age is not old but young. Inside this aging body lies a heart still as curious, still as hungry, still as full of desire as it was in its youth. I sit by the window watching the world go by, feeling like a stranger in a foreign country, unable to connect with the outside world, and yet, within me the same fire burns that once thought it could conquer the world. And the real tragedy is that the world remains so far and so elusive, a place I have never been able to fully grasp.       ~ Albert Camus

Birthdays

October 3rd 

October 14th... I posted the top picture on FaceBook for Rob's birthday and a film friend wrote "Rob should have been wearing a white cowboy hat in the photo above because that was the way you could tell one of the true good guys in a classic western. And Rob was one of the goodest guys it has ever been my privilege to know." Brendan photoshopped it. 

Anything I write and post on FB with Rob's name included is seen by all his film industry colleagues and so, for some reason, I tend to be reticent about expressing my feelings. They are still too tender. 

I posted: Happy Birthday to Rob Young - my fun-loving, gun-slinging man who was my solid ground. If you can, have a margarita in his honour. 

(N.B. the guns in-hand are toys. My guys and gal are pretending they are tough. In fact, all four of them are gentle, kind folk.) This photograph was taken on Rob's 70th birthday.) 

I wrote the N.B. as I have a gun-loving cousin and I did not want him to think that anyone in my family have a similar love for weapons. 

October 17th

For Gill on FB, I was reticent but a little less than on Rob's:

Happy Birthday to our daughter Gillian Young, born three days after Rob's 40th birthday. She is bright, kind, generous, effervescent, courageous, and the best daughter in the universe.

You are lovely, my darling Gill. 

"...  sometimes it is necessary

to reteach a thing its loveliness,

to put a hand on the brow

of the flower

and retell it in words and in touch

it is lovely

until it flowers again from within, of self-blessing"

I don't know why I thought of this poem by Galway Kinnell for your birthday. Perhaps, it is simply that everyone needs to be reminded of their loveliness and what better day than on one's birthday.

And then I sent Gill a private card ~ not too private that I cannot show part of it here:

Adrift

Adrift 

 Everything is beautiful and I am so sad.
 

This is how the heart makes a duet of
 wonder and grief. 

The light spraying 
through the lace of the fern is as delicate


as the fibers of memory forming their web


around the knot in my throat. The breeze


makes the birds move from branch to branch


as this ache makes me look for those I’ve lost


in the next room, in the next song, in the laugh


of the next stranger. In the very center, under


it all, what we have that no one can take


away and all that we’ve lost face each other.


It is there that I’m adrift, feeling punctured


by a holiness that exists inside everything.


I am so sad and everything is beautiful. 

(Mark Nepo)

My friend Marlene sent me this poem and it so describes my head and heart for the past year and nearly an half. I am only now pausing and listening to myself, observing what I choose to do without comment from the part of me that likes to criticize. 

In my email to Marlene, I wrote:

I have been struggling being alone, struggling with all the work it takes to run a household, keep myself alive. As well as my usual chores, I now have to shop, cook, figure out how things work - so many things that I would just call “Rob” and he would solve the issue. I never realised that he did so much...

I have been researching aging, trying to find the good part about aging. I turned to Simone de Beauvoir and her book “Old Age”. How depressing. I want sunshine. I want to understand why Ann Truitt said that it was the best time in her life. I thought of Helen Luke who said something like “to die a good death, you have to live a good life.”...  At every time in my life that I have been uncertain where to turn, a book has fallen into my lap. I am still waiting... 

I have led such an interesting life. I think now of times with grouchy old Rob and I am astonished and delighted at his words, his actions. And yet he was often a difficult man. And yet I trusted him to be there for me. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Where do I go from here? I intend to go somewhere.

I intend to go somewhere!

In the meanwhile, I am readying my house for my children and their families who arrive at the end of October when we will celebrate Rob and scatter his ashes. 

Freedom and Loneliness

When nobody wakes you up in the morning, and when nobody waits for you at night, and when you can do whatever you want. what do you call it, freedom or loneliness? ~ Milan Kundera

The Passing of Time

Growing, ripening, aging, dying — the passing of time is predestined, inevitable. There is only one solution if old age is not to be an absurd parody of our former life, and that is to go on pursuing ends that give our existence a meaning — devotion to individuals, to groups or to causes, social, political, intellectual or creative work. In old age we should wish still to have passions strong enough to prevent us turning in on ourselves. One’s life has value so long as one attributes value to the life of others, by means of love, friendship, indignation, compassion. ~Simone de Beauvoir (Book: The Coming of Age.)

I no longer know what I was doing before Rob died. Since his death - 1 year, 3 months, 15 days - I walk around in a daze, lightly drugged with nerve medicine to still the shingles that refuse to leave me in peace. I am trying to find value in my life and like a woman in her forties who hears her biological clock ticking, I hear mine. I figure that I have five to eight good years left and I don't want to waste them. And yet what to do? I have always found solutions about where to take my life in books but one hasn't fallen into my lap lately. I don't know if I'm still grieving or if I'm becoming senile. I am scared. I have always been prone to melodrama so I hope that's what I am doing now.