I've run out of words or rather words have run out of me. I have nothing positive or optimistic to say, no good report to make--not about my family nor my mom and certainly not myself. No wisdom to impart, no poignancy to reveal. Instead of words there's silence, the kind that comes after death. I remember when Dad died, how the quiet in our house felt empty for the first time, like it didn't matter how much I shouted or screamed or wept because none of these sounds could add up to anything but more silence. A deafness of sorts, only the rest of the world clattered on--cars that needed gas, cable bills that needed payment, shoes that needed new soles. It was just me who was mute, motionless.
And inside this soundless sound is the worst kind of lonely. How I feel right now--wordless and lonely. Brotherless. Fatherless. Very soon to be motherless. How my oldest brother Peter has existed for a very long time.
Deeply, a mother's daughter
--this is alifewithmom--
Saturday, October 24, 2009
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7 comments:
Dear Christine,
And you should not write when the motivation to do so is not there. Your blogg is one of your tools for coping during these very difficult times. A tool of self-expression and emotional release, but your blogg is not an obligation to report.
It seemed to me you have been approaching this point. Perhap focusing for a time on alternate coping statigies would be helpful.
Lunch or a walk with a close friend? Meaningful conversations, but perhaps on topics unrelated to those in which you have been immersed.
Many close friends care deeply and are concerned about you. Perhaps physically connecting with that love is the emotional nurturing that is called for.
Grey Kitty and I are thinging about you. Don't tell Grey Bear, but Grey Kitty was impressed with the mallard feat.
Call if you feel like talking.
Take care,
Grey Kitty and Dan
A writer never runs out of words. Dan is right, your writing is a coping mechanism. Consider still writing about you and your mother. Write about what changes you see in her from day to day, even if it’s negative. Just like I told you the other day, the bad stuff never ends. It can’t all be unicorns and rainbows. Just because you stop writing about it doesn’t mean that it will stop. Let us know how she’s doing, those who have been reading your story, if you can. I know writing about it makes it more real, and reality sucks, but it might also help you deal with it by looking at it in the face. Tell us how angry you are, how hurt you are, how sad you are. As Dan said, you have a lot of people out there thinking about you and loving you and your mother. Even when you sit in your silence, it helps to have someone sit with you. I picked this out of one of my favorite books, The Prophet:
Your pain is the breaking of the shell that encloses your understanding.
Even as the stone of the fruit must break, that its heart may stand in the sun, so must you know pain.
And could you keep your heart in wonder at the daily miracles of your life, your pain would not seem less wondrous than your joy
As all things do, this too shall pass -A.
Just to re-emphasize, write only if you can. To repeat Dan, this isn't an obligation...I hope I didn't make you feel like you have to do this.
Christine,
I hope Amada's quote from the Prophet finds a resonnance with you.
I was very meaningful to me - I appreciate Amanda posting it.
Dan
Dear Cousin,
Perhaps this is the time to share a poem from Mary Oliver. Fran's sister Pat sent it to me. I'm hoping you may find comfort and guidance in her words, as I did. Dan
Heavy
That time
I thought I could not
go any closer to grief
without dying
I went closer,
and I did not die.
Surely God
had His hand in this,
as well as friends.
Still, I was bent,
and my laughter,
as the poet said,
was nowhere to be found.
Then said my friend Daniel
(brave even among lions),
“It’s not the weight you carry
but how you carry it—
books, bricks, grief—
it’s all in the way
you embrace it, balance it, carry it
when you cannot, and would not, put it down.”
So I went practicing.
Have you noticed?
Have you heard
the laughter
that comes, now and again,
out of my startled mouth?
How I linger
to admire, admire, admire
the things of this world
that are kind, and maybe
also troubled—
roses in the wind,
the sea geese on the steep waves,
a love
to which there is no reply?
Mary Oliver
Dan: What a powerful poem by Oliver. I love her....but this particular one I had not seen. Your words are wise....I think I just felt the need to feel helpless for a day or two (today has not been a good day either). But tomorrow is another day, to be sure, and the clamor of life does move on, with or without you. You tell Grey Girl that she shouldn't get any ideas about replicating her pal's hunting prowess. Absolutely grizzly!!!!! And there are so many other smaller, less dramatic animals to pick on. I really just don't know how he did it--he actually dragged it through the cat door, still alive. Ah well. C.
Amanda: I have taken to heart the opening lines of the poem you quote--"Your pain is the breaking of the shell that encloses your understanding." Wow....this is profound...something I will need to think on. C.
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