Writing is Cathartic

I wrote a lengthy diatribe last night that I intended to post here.

When I was done writing it, and after I let Peter read it, I decided I didn't need to post it.

So I deleted it.

It was mostly about an injustice that I felt had occurred against me and how angry I had been about it, etc. etc. etc.

But truthfully, I'm not really that angry about it anymore. I think I just needed to write the words down.

And you wouldn't have enjoyed reading it - it was too preachy.

Suffice it to say, I was angry about girl drama and I wanted to challenge us (as women) to start being united rather than ripping each other apart. We should be standing in solidarity with each other against a culture that has dehumanized and devalued us for centuries. And that is all I'll say about that. At least for now.

But speaking of being preachy - I recently had to write a sermon for a class I'm taking on the Torah. I might post it here, in case you're interested.

Mountain Climbing

how to climb a mountain

Make no mistake. This will be an exercise in staying vertical.
Yes, there will be a view, later, a wide swath of open sky,
but in the meantime: tree and stone. If you're lucky, a hawk will
coast overhead, scanning the forest floor. If you're lucky,
a set of wildflowers will keep you cheerful. Mostly, though,
a steady sweat, your heart fluttering indelicately, a solid ache
perforating your calves. This is called work, what you will come to know, eventually and simply, as movement, as all the evidence you need to make your way. Forget where you were. That story is no longer true. Level your gaze to the trail you're on, and even the dark won't stop you.

{Maya Stein}

Forget where you were. That story is no longer true. Level your gaze to the trail you're on, and even the dark won't stop you.

********

Grief

I did not get over the loss of my loved ones; rather, I absorbed the loss into my life, like soil receives decaying matter, until it becomes a part of who I am.
{Gerald Sittser}

In Memory & Hopeful Expectation {for Eula}

I have written this at least ten times. Five times in my head – the words keeping me awake at night. Five times on paper – but never good enough.

And now I’m giving up. Because I understand that words won’t do justice to the story I want to tell you. Words cannot capture the brightness of my grandmother’s life. So what I have written will just have to do, although I am certain that it’s not enough.

A poem has been stuck in my mind for a year now – it comforts me when I wish I lived closer to my family. It frames what I believe is true about relationships with loved ones – whether we are separated by mere street blocks, by thousands of miles, or by our very state of being. The poem goes:

I carry your heart with me (I carry it in my heart)

I am never without it (anywhere I go, you go, my dear, & whatever is done by me is your doing, my darling)

I fear no fate (for you are my fate, my sweet)

I want no world (for beautiful you are my world, my true)

And it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant & whatever a sun will always sing is you

Here is the deepest secret nobody knows

Here is the root of the root & the bud of the bud & the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide

And this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart

I carry your heart (I carry it in my heart)


Although death separates us now, Gramma’s heart lives among us – it resides in the love we have for her – in the pieces of herself she left behind. Her legacy is part of our story – her love, part of our past & our present.

Two Wednesdays ago I began the climb over the mountains, driving to La Grande. The sky looked angry – gray, unstable & moody. Framing the hill separating La Grande from Pendleton was the most brilliant rainbow I think I have ever seen. The layers of its colors were so distinct from its beginning to its end. It’s almost startling to see something so beautiful set against a sky so fierce. But the most beautiful things in life seem often accompanied by something quite opposite. Death is always prefaced by life.

When I walked into Gramma’s room that same night, I found her surrounded by visitors (as was nearly always the case). This night, one of her oldest friends & a new friend sat on either side of her bed. Her new friend was a staff member at the facility, but his visit was not a condition of his position… he had brought her coffee from Starbucks, & was visiting her on his own time. I remembered his name from a conversation I had with Gramma weeks earlier. She said they were “figuring each other out,” learning from each other. She knew he had a story to tell, & she was ready to listen, when he was ready to share. That night, I realized that something had transpired between them, a deep connection had been made. But Saul’s relationship with my grandmother was not unique. You all are already aware that Gramma cared deeply about the people she came in contact with.

Hours before her spirit left this place, hospice began their care of her. Gramma had become less & less communicative, she was opening her eyes at fewer intervals, but something caused her to stir, & when her eyes flickered open she met the gaze of a new visitor, who introduced herself: “Hi Eula, I’m just the hospice nurse.” To which Gramma responded, “Don’t say ‘just.’” Even at the end, her primary concern was focused on others… her first instinct was to encourage the self-esteem of a woman she had never met. How typically Gramma!

But I’ve digressed. I was going to tell you about the conversation Gramma & I had after Saul & Carol left her room that night. We talked for two & a half, almost three hours. I was struck by how beautiful she looked – her skin as smooth & olive-toned as I’d ever seen. Her eyes had changed from the last time I saw her – they were wider & not quite as clear, but I remember thinking how childlike they were – open & seeking. Her hand clutched mine, & she asked, “Jen – what do you say when someone asks about me? How do you describe me?” I remember pausing in amazement at the perfection of this opportunity. I had, in fact, spent the previous three days asking myself the very same question, & writing down my response. The response contained what I loved most about her, what I admired about her, the memories of her I held most dear.

“It’s funny you asked me that,” I said, “because I wrote you a book with the answer.” We laughed & cried as I read to her. I had written that I loved her strength, her fierce love for her family, her boldness, her courage. I wrote that I loved her elegantly curved handwriting & the many precious notes she had written me throughout my life. I wrote that I loved playing Uno with her, having Christmas at her house & opening presents one at a time in almost painful slowness. I loved her laugh – strong & loud. Her commitment to her own opinions, the way she still asks me about my friends from college, many of whom she met only once. I wrote that I loved her spunk, her tenacity, that more than once I had wished to be more like her. I wrote about how grateful I was to her – for the ways she had supported me over the years – for telling me over & over again that I could do anything I wanted to. I wrote that her support, in many ways, was responsible for shaping the person I am today & the person I am still becoming. I wrote about some of my favorite memories of times we had spend together…

I wrote that words were so painfully inadequate as expressions of my love for her, how I would cherish her always, how I would hold her heart in my own. And I must admit the same to you: I could write thousands of words & read them a thousand different times, & they would not come close to honoring my grandmother’s life the way I want them to. But words are often all we have. I wrote that more than loving her because of the things she did, I loved her simply because she was. I loved her existence, & I believe our collective presence here today testifies that we all loved her in this way. I wrote that she was leaving in her footsteps a beautiful legacy, a garden of lovely flowers. I wrote that I honored her life, her love, her spirit, her wisdom.

She fell asleep that night continuing to murmur little bits of memories… some of them had nothing to do with me. They were about my mother, my sisters, the moment my dad came out of the delivery room on the day I was born… some of the things she said I had no point of reference for at all, but she was smiling & I was content that she was remembering the most precious moments of her life. When I returned the next morning, she was still holding the little book I had written, she had been reading it again, she said. At the end of the book I had recorded some pieces of scripture & prose that resonated with me… one of them was, curiously, a verse that had been recited at my wedding, & now it had returned to my mind. The passage is from the Song of Solomon, “Set me as a seal upon your heart, as a seal upon your arm; for love is as strong as death, passion fierce as the grave. Many waters cannot quench love, neither can floods drown it.”

Nothing can separate us from the love that was exchanged between our spirits & hers. Love is as strong as death – stronger, I think.

There is little I know that provides comfort when our hearts are breaking. But maybe, instead of contemplating the loss of Gramma, I can remember that her strong spirit is a part of me – her heart is carried within my own. And this is the deepest truth I know: Gramma’s life sang in testimony to a Creator, to the giver of Life. Her life blossomed with good fruit. The greatest universal commandments are to love God & to love each other. My grandmother loved each of us with intensity until her final moment.

The Gospels tell us that God dwells among us when we love one-another. When we reach out to the world around us – we are not simply doing work Jesus commanded; we are actively loving God. This was what my grandmother was engaged in for as long as I knew her. As finite beings, we wrestle with concepts of infinity. Next year at this time, I’ll have completed my master’s degree in theology & be moving on to doctoral work. But I doubt that I’ll be any better equipped to discuss the infinite… there are some concepts the human mind can only just begin to comprehend.

But here is something else I know is true: God is good. No thought I have ever had of God can even begin to compare to the goodness of the Creator. God is infinite goodness. And Gramma has been gathered up into that goodness, into the infinity of love.

I’d like to share one final piece of poetry…

Scripture ends in a marriage.

This is the end to which all

Things tend, the end which makes all

Things new.

All that mars love ignites, makes ash.

But faith, hope, love survive. Love

Is the Last, best word, the end

Into which all will bend, &

Then begin again. The next

Word & the new will be love

As well: for love never ends.

I believe life ends in a marriage, a holy union between the finite being & the infinite Creator. In the end, all that remains is love – oceans & oceans of love. We have been blessed to swim in the sea that was Gramma’s life, & we are blessed to carry her love within our hearts.

Where do I go from here? I know she wouldn’t tell me to stop grieving. Every time I’ve cried in her presence over the past three months, she wept alongside me, & reminded me that tears are okay…joy & sorrow often sit side by side. And indeed, this has been true over the past week. If you are feeling, as I have, a sense of loneliness in your grief, I’d like to suggest that God grieves this loss as well, & is very near…surrounding us as the night embraces the moon. In time, I pray that our hearts will be healed, & find rest in knowing that in her peaceful departure from this world, she was welcomed into a far more beautiful place.

How shall I honor her life? My very bones know the answer to this question. By continuing her legacy – loving my family well, laughing as often as I can, weeping when there is something to grieve, dreaming big dreams, befriending strangers, & living with extravagant generosity.

And The End of Something Else, too.

My good intentions regarding this blog (and a lot of other things) have fallen apart, a bit.

A couple of weeks ago, my grandmother passed away.

Her final decline (the one from which she would not rebound as she had so many times in the past) began the day after the last time I posted here (the post about Emily).

I was lucky to spend about 15 hours at her side before her spirit moved from this place to another.

I have so much to tell you about. I have posts in my head about the expansive love of Gramma, the way a family unites around death, the loveliness of my mother who shook as I wrapped my arm around her waist, my father with his arm around her shoulders, and walked into Gramma's room knowing she was already gone - and the strength in her voice as she prayed over her mother's body, the brokenness I saw in my sister's eyes and how I tried to comfort a breaking heart but failed, the strained notes of an old hymn - voices choked with sorrow. I might write about some of these moments; I might just hold them in my mind and let them tumble around until they begin to sing a hint of something sweet rather than something painful.

During the time I spent in La Grande this month, I also experienced some frustrating moments that I'm certain I'll write about. I found myself involved in girl drama at a hair salon I'd never been to - and being effectively kicked out of a restaurant.

I have soooo much to tell you.

I'll get to those stories - but starting tomorrow I'm in Portland for classes and Peter's birthday is on Monday so it will be next week before I begin to process those words.

I will post one more time today, though; the words I wrote and read for Gramma this past Saturday as those who loved her gathered together in honor of her life, and death.

The End of Spring Semester

This morning, at 7:00 a.m., I released into cyberspace the last assignment of Spring semester.

And I felt very strange.

I have a hard time being "done" with things. Even in the short term.

{and this is the very, very short term since summer semester starts on Monday}

But it meant that I had absolutely nothing that I had to do today. And nothing that I have to do tomorrow. No reading, no forum posting, no research, no writing. In a short amount of time my life has been consumed by study.

And I've really liked it.

But now I'm not quite sure what to do with myself. Until Monday, that is.

I had anticipated feeling this way, so I scheduled a day in Eugene with Emily. That sounds selfish. Let me rephrase. I knew this weekend would be the first free one I've had since Christmas break, so I penciled a day trip in several weeks ago.

I think it's a problem not to feel comfortable in one's own skin unless you're in the act of doing what you believe defines you.

*****************************

I got up before Peter {I always do; he's a night owl and I'm becoming more and more of a morning person}, and submitted my final assignment. I showered and fed the cat as quietly as one can in a 400 square foot space. I walked out into sun and shockingly warm temperatures. But the sky was brooding. I knew the rain was on its way.

I drove downtown, toward gas {stop number one} and coffee {stop number two}. The coffee was too sweet but I sipped it anyway as I drove an almost-bare old highway the 45 miles that separates Corvallis from Eugene.

I feel a little taken aback and shaken up every time I see one of my sisters. The problem is that they've all grown up too fast. They've changed, they've matured, they've gotten married and had babies, they've fallen in love and are struggling {as I am} to figure out who they are. In my mind, I remember them most distinctly at the ages they were when I was about a freshman in college.

Emily is eight, she is all awkward arms and legs flailing around her body as she waltzes and pirouettes from room to room. She is a ballerina. Her hair curls wildly in different directions, spilling around her face and down her back. She giggles as she dances, a book clutched in one hand, a baby doll in the other. She is quiet and sweet. Secretly, I worry about her awkwardness. Will she grow into herself?

I need not have worried.

Emily opens the door to her apartment, she is tall - much taller than I. Her side-swept bangs graze eyes that are akin to infinite pools of hot chocolate. She is more graceful than ever - a long, leggy gazelle {with style}. She talks about finding her way in academia - her plans for championing the cause of hurting women - her boyfriend, her roommates, her future. I think about how much more mature she is than I at her age. Her smile and giggle come a little more reluctantly than when she was eight, but still, she is ablaze when she smiles.

We eat breakfast, we take a tour of the sorority house she has just joined, we purchase American-made goods at American Apparel, eat chocolate in the rain {it arrived in a fury}, play with lipstick at the cosmetic counter. And too soon, it's time to go.

I drop her off at her apartment, wondering if she knows how splendid she is. Really, truly splendid. I wonder if she knows how much joy and beauty my heart wishes her. All the love in the world.

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I'm enrolled in summer classes, but at basically half-time enrollment. Which means I'll have a lot of extra time on my hands. I have a list of things I'm going to do with that time - like read a list of books from scholars who are important in my field, and do more yoga, and spend more time just being still with my husband, and listening for the voice of the Creator. Posting on this blog is part of my list, along with really observing and thinking about the ways women interact with each other. Women are at the heart of my concern - how we support each other, or how we fail to. How we are sometimes each others best friends, and more often than not, each others fiercest opponents. I can't imagine behaving this way toward my sister. I could not, ever, oppose my sister. None of them.

Why is it so easy to injure our broader network of sisters? The sisters I have by nature of belonging to the human race?

I think it might have something to do with not being comfortable with ourselves. Not being enough.

I might be thinking/writing a lot about this over the summer. Or not. If I do, I hope it doesn't bore you too much.

{and more on Holly and Rebecca next week}