Ever since Thursday, when Dad was moved to a personal care home to continue rehabbing his broken neck, I've been too restless and tired to sit down and write. This restlessness, I know, is born out of my need to figure things out, to make sense of what I'm judging to be a difficult situation. Ditto for the tiredness.
let go let go let go let go let go let go let go let go
Love yourself, hon! Take care of yourself, Dad said.
That made me weep.
Dad is settling into his new surroundings.
"What's the alternative?" he said, "To be a whiner? Then they'll come and close my door and where will that get me?"
He was smiling, leaning back in his chair while I sorted through some of his bills. Michael was hooking up the television. Claire was rummaging through his welcome basket for a snack. The sun was out!
I'm a bowl full of shiny, gold-flecked fishy emotions. One minute, mouth gaping, watching all the old ladies with walkers; 3 Bettys in a row! next, brave and grown-up; shape-shifting by the minute.
This is why I haven't been writing much. Of course, it's these fishy times when writing is the best thing to do, even if you're gasping for air. Write anyway...
Neeny said, "You're not a mess. And you're not depressed. You're just alive. And so is your Dad. It's so good. Really."
One summer, many years ago, I was brought to my knees by a terrible depression; a phantom that came in through the window.
It swooped in, dark and heavy, and would not leave.
Until I surrendered.
I was living with my daughter, Jesse, in a little farmhouse in town. Her father had died the summer before, tragically and much too young, due to complications from alcoholism; the fall-out from his life and death didn't really hit me until a year later.
And still the after-shocks.
I made it through the school year, then I crumbled. Food shopping was a huge effort. When the phone rang, I'd flinch.
In August, Mom came to visit and help with Jesse's birthday party. It's all a blur, paper cups, burgers on the grill, girls. I couldn't stand the smell of food. I remember the day Mom was leaving. I watched her putting her bag in the car. I felt frozen inside, not able to speak, but then I said, "I need you to stay a bit longer, Mom. I'm afraid to be alone right now." She stayed.
I was very concerned about not being able to go back to my teaching job. I had lost a lot of weight, was weak, and tired. How could I possibly handle a room full of second graders, faculty meetings, the principal.
I was always afraid.
I remember being with a friend. We were walking slowly around my neighborhood. I walked very slowly that summer, turtle-slow.
"I'm not sure what to do. I don't know if I can go back to school. What if I can't handle it?" I said.
"You don't need to worry about that right now. School doesn't start for three weeks. Right now, let's walk. And when you have to make a decision about school, you will. Remember this, you can always change your mind. Always."
This memory bubbled up on my morning walk with Chewy. Not in a sad way, no. More a noticing that the honest and kind things we do for one another ripple on for years, washing over us in a fresh way.
That long ago summer, I died to my old self, and rose, out of the ashes to a new one. I returned to my classroom and got stronger as the fall turned to red and gold. It took a couple of years to come back fully from that experience and there are times I fear the phantom's return. It's less likely to get its claws in me as long as I speak up, ask for help, and know I can always change my mind.
Go ahead, say it out loud.
I can always change my mind.
This morning Chewy ran into the neighbor's yard to chase a squirrel and didn't come when I called. The sky was gray. It started to rain. Claire and I went to the bus stop where the boys shoot each other with sticks and throw pine cone grenades. I knew she didn't want to go to school. I didn't want to send her. I felt like crying.
"I want to travel," she said, "and walk by the river with Chewy."
Back at the house, I sat on the sofa and cried.
"Michael, I don't know what to do! Where do I fit?"
"Right here," he said, putting his arms around me.
"I feel like a lost teenager, a slacker, a loser, a big crybaby! I'm a grown-up, for God's sake. Shouldn't I know what I'm doing?"
"You have to remember, honey, this stuff isn't always easy."
This made me cry more, that deep heaving cry that says, give it up already, dammit! I wasn't even sure what I was crying about so I gave him a whole list: kids, work, dogs, money, old parents, the world.
"I saw a show the other night," I said, "CNN Heroes. All these people, doing remarkable things against the odds. A man making lamps for children in Kenya. And the tiny woman who runs a home for women and girls who've been sex slaves, girls Claire's age! She won the award. She got up and quietly said, 'Namaste'. She asked the audience to close their eyes and imagine a girl they love, a daughter. Then she said, 'We must do something. We must stand up!' We should be doing something!" I said.
I cried for a half-hour straight. Then Michael went to work and I went upstairs to sift through a box of papers. When I found this poem, I cried some more.
This being alive/This being human...
This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.
A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.
Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they're a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of furniture,
still, treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out
for some new delight.
The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
meet them at the door laughing,
and invite them in.
Be grateful for whoever comes,
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.
-Rumi
