Muted Tones

2 Dec

If you have ever walked the road of grief, depression and/or oppression you will understand fully, this particular writing…

My culture and society do not recognize the black veil of mourning (yes our society once did), or the fact that black clothes represent grieving (they use to, but not now).  I’ve written about this aspect of life already and will not harp on it further, at least to the degree of reiterating my desire to have my clothes reflective of my sorrow.  No, that is not my direction today.  My direction today is to give a nod to living life in muted tones.

Muted tones?  You ask with a quizzical, half-hearted interest–if even that!  Yes muted.  Though the black veil of mourning is not covering my face, my soul is wrapped in a dark blanket of grief.  This grief mutes the colorful tones of life.  And I experience this world, currently, without the glitter and glitz of technicolor.

The translation of my predicament is this: my soul is sheltered thus my vision is fogged, or veiled.  It is akin to looking at a beautiful sunset (or sunrise) with colors bursting in multiplicity, clouds accenting the Painter’s canvas with utmost perfection so much so that the breeze takes a reverent pause.  And all who are privileged to view the masterful presentation are awestruck by the art of life.  And I, alongside the other viewers, am also aware of the beauty, though awe is not mine.  For the veil through which I look has slightly muddled the picture.

What is the tangibility of the reported “awe?”  The tangibility equates to happiness.  Happiness for something, anything.  It is a weird place to live, this world of mine without happiness.  Oh I do have joyful moments, for my soul has enough experience to not cloud that perspective.  But happiness, she has sailed away at the moment.  And while she is tarrying, I am somewhat paralyzed.  Not in physical movement but in actions of the heart.  …I want to shop for holiday gifts, but I get into a store and cannot think beyond the reality of my loss and the ‘whom I’m not shopping for’.  I leave the store empty handed, or worse yet, with a purchase that doesn’t make much practical or sentimental sense. I know I have a tradition of baking for our neighbors and friends, but for the life of me I can’t get my soul excited enough to think up a good plan.  I want to bless others, but as my mind tries desperately to focus on what that means, I draw a blank.  I want to make phone calls, but can’t find my voice.  I want to visit with friends, but can’t remember how to converse.  I want to be normal–well “normal” was never mine to begin with! 😉

Thankfully my sister was in town for Thanksgiving and she (and her husband) did everything to ensure our holiday tradition was observed.  For if left up to me, we would have ended up enjoying a warm bowl of pre-made ramen noodles courtesy a pot of boiling water.  I could hardly think one tangible thought past the need to stare into space and not speak one word.  Yes, I was surrounded by family whose children are a complete joy to interact with.  But the enjoyment of them is experienced through my veil.  I have weird and unique miracles all around me, reminding me that our G-d reigns and is watching over us (me).  It is just that the lack of happiness scares me a bit.  It keeps me muted.  And sometimes I worry I won’t recognize an emergency situation because the impact of seeing through my veil disables my reflexes–whether the emergency is physical, emotional, or spiritual.

Even writing is elusive.  I have considered writing quite a few times since my previous entry, but when I sit down to express myself the paralyzation sets in and I stare.  I am quite boring at this particular stage of grief.  How droll am I.  To paraphrase Mr. T, “I pity the fool who has to spend time with me!”

Person: How are you? Me:  I’m ok, thank you.  How are you?  Person: Fine.  So what’s new?  Me:  Nothing, and you?  Person: How’s your new job?  Me: It’s going well, thank you.  Person:  Do you like San Diego?  Me: Yes, but it’s not my home.  Me:  Well I’m glad you are well.  Thank you for checking in, perhaps I’ll see you again soon.  Take care.

And then I bolt before the conversation turns to my children, my family, my heart.  Which is probably why I am in a place of muted tones.  For I am constantly running away from the same wall that keeps appearing before me.  I turn and run right…the wall appears.  I turn faster to the left and run like hell…the wall appears.  I move backwards with grace and ease, running like a pro…the wall appears.  I run straight, steady and poised; the wall, the grief, the loss…appears.

I spend minutes in futile wonderment…what is the difference between happiness and joy?  Are they synonymous?  When the bible speaks of the “joy of the Lord” what does that mean?  Does it translate to peace, this ‘joy of the Lord’?  If so, I have that–peace that is.  Not to be confused with reconciliation.  Reconciled to this life I am not.  But I do have peace in knowing my reconciled state is irrelevant to the cycle of life, thus in a quasi manner, I live a peaceful life.  …futility at its finest (and that is just a glimpse).  It is here I see the blessing of my job.  For focusing on work keeps me from loosing myself in the wreckage of my thoughts.

I breathe deeply here at the end of a long and sorrow-filled note.  I breathe deeply for I am sitting at the wall, its color is gray, though the sunset this evening was magnificent!

Thank you for allowing me this moment of grief sharing.

 

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Going Straight

2 Nov

Bottm line, I am not ready for my son to be gone.  Now that I’ve got that out, let us move up from there.

Seems a redunt statement, the one I wrote above.  Actually, it is redundant.  Of course I’m not ready.  Is anyone ever ready to say goodbye to their child?  Brian’s grandmother wasn’t ready when her daughter, his mom, left this earth at 59 years of age back in 2007.  Even with all of her suffering from disease, she had been an integral part of her family unit.  She lived with her mother the last several years of her life and was again melded into the routine of her parents household (sans her father who had departed previously, answering Heaven’s call in 1981).  Brian’s grandmother, Granny as we called her, had aclimated once again to having her daughter around, in and out and there.  So even her daughters suffering, though painful as it was to witness, became a part of their life.  And loosing that influence, that continual option for relationship, had profound significance for Granny.

Same too is our loss of Cole.  He was reintegrated into our daily lives after taking his brief two year stint away from us while serving as a United States Marine.  We had bid him adieu the day he reported to his new family, the military, and the Bent 3 learned how to operate sans his presence.  But when he came home after his brain tumor surgery, we reaclimated as a family unit of 4.  The Bent Four—daily.

There is no easy way to face having Cole’s life not with us.  For even as I turned the calendar from October to November (just this morning), the calendar my beautiful cousin made for me with custom photos of family events the year prior, it reminds me of what we were doing, Cole included, this month last year.  I flipped the calendar as I waited for my coffee to reheat in the microwave and there the story unfolded.  Crystal Cove, Laguna Beach, last year with the family.  And I had to face that Cole is not here.  Brian caught wind of something inside of me and said, “what’s wrong?”  I tearfully could only answer, “he’s not here!”  So Brian went to look at the calendar, “but there are no photos of Cole on this page?”  “I know.  But he was there.”

The most difficult task within this journey of mourning is…I honestly cannot finish this thought, for I cannot pinpoint what is most difficult.  But flipping the calendar and remembering our times together is hard.  Next year, when I flip the calendar I will remember my sorrow in rememberence, but this year I remember the tangibility of him.

It is a strange new reality for us Bents.  Living as three, especially as our lives were so encompassed on being four.  Even Cole’s service dog is a reminder for me of the void present without my son, as now after five months of not seeing her rightful owner, she has attached herself  fully to me.  I don’t want her attached to me (though I am now equally fond of her), I want her attached to Cole!  Esther, who has been holding down the fort of our home during the week while Brian and I work in San Diego, is out of sorts.  Though she, in her fast approaching 18years, doesn’t necessarily need her brother every minute of every day, hates that he isn’t here and feels the silence of our new life too profoundly.  The silence overwhelms.

It is as if our life is confused.  Unsure and a bit wayward.  Which actually brings me to my title, Going Straight.

After 43 years of being a naturally, very curly haired individual, my hair has gone straight!  What the heck?  Rivka with straight hair?  Seems impossible!  Yet it is true.  I get out of the shower and my hair air dries without so much as a curly root.  As weird as this phenomenon is, it really pays tribute to the strange new life we are grappling with daily.  A nod to the function within the non-functioning.  What? Does that even make sense?  No, it doesn’t.  Functioning doesn’t even make sense to any of us right now, yet functioning we are.  Differently, confused, and even chaotic though not as chaos would normally present itself.  It isn’t cacaphony, it is melody within tumult.  We are functioning and moving forward in many ways, yet life is not quite right.  And my hair reflects the phenomena of the effects of this disruption to our family unit.

Don’t take my presentation the wrong way, having straight hair is a dream come true for me.  I have always felt my Creator mistakingly bestowed the wrong coif to me at the onset.  But having it now, and only in this last month (as I painstainkingly dealt with unruly hair the entire time in Europe and Japan this past summer thanks to forgetting my voltage converter), is strangely odd.  Yet the oddity I embrace as all of my life, our life, our Bent 3 life, is out of place, strange, and unfamiliar.

So let’s just called it what it is, unnaturally natural, and raise a glass to going straight.  Cheers!

straight hair

Walking the straight and narrow…

Trust in the Lord with all of your heart, and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways submit to Him and He will make your paths straight.   Proverbs 3:5-6

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Respite-ting

13 Oct

Today I am theoretically covering all mirrors and clocks.  Today I am living a wish fulfilled.  A wish I have longed for since May 17th 2013, the day the hand of the Lord reached out to my son and offered him peace.  A wish for silence, a wish for life to stop, a wish for rest.  Today, I am respiting.  And I am thankful.

I have no plans.  I have no need to shower.  I have no need to speak.  I have no need to change out of my pajamas.  Today I am quiet.

Today I have time to ponder ridiculous notions such as, “I wonder when the next earthquake will hit?”  Or, “Why so many spiders?”  Today, I even considered picking up a book and reading.  I even feel inclined to read an email from a friend, who back in June, sent me her reflections,  A Story of Cole, which up to this point I haven’t had the strength to read.   …today is nice.

I have been given the gift of a four-day weekend.  Esther is at work, Brian at the Rose Bowl, and me at home alone with no thoughts of having to begin my work week tomorrow.  Yay.

Yesterday I had to attend a baby shower.  I was part of the cooking crew and therefore had to get things done.  Coincidentally, the shower was held in the same location as that of my son’s funeral reception.  That was a tough assignment, but navigated with the concentrated focus on the mother-to-be and her happy occasion, her growing boy inside.  The hired assistants were a mother and daughter team.  They were part of our clean up crew, and very warm and hospitable women.  Unbeknownst to them, they shared with me the last time they were hired to help clean up after a “party.”  They explained to me it was for a funeral, and the flowers were beautiful.  This conversation came toward the end of the baby shower, when we had been working alongside eachother for a few hours.  I said to them, that funeral was for my son.  The gracious mother began to cry and hugged me, explaining that she had seen a photo of the young man with beautiful eyes, not realizing he was my son.

And then, she explained her own loss of her first born, her one and only son.  He was diagnosed with Leukemia at the age of 19 and died one month later.  That was 6 years ago.  She explained how her lovely daughter had lost her best friend, her older brother.  And they both were sad for me, for the newness of my loss, for Esther, and for us–us being, all women who have lost a child, all families who have lost a significant member.  A club neither of us wishes to be a part of.

She praised me, this lovely woman whom I would have never known was my kindred, for my ability to smile…

I have gotten used to having to put on the mask of ‘whatever the occassion requires’.  I have gotten used to life forcing me to live and put one step in front of the other.  I have gotten used to smiling for the purpose of spreading joy and allowing joy to be fulfilled.  And so it was, at the baby shower, that I was able to focus on the blessing of the birth and mask my sorrow further.

Oh Esther and I did shed some tears, out on the street, away from the festivities.  And I did receive the comforting condolences of the new found friend with tears in my eyes.  But I quickly blotted my cheeks and resumed.

But today…I don’t have to pretend.  Today, I am given the gift of pause.  I like today.  I can also appreciate better my gift as I have next weekend to look forward to.  Next weekend I go away for my annual ‘girlfriend weekend’.  A tradition my long time friend and I began when our children were young.  We are both in a place of transition and that will make our weekend together a blessing.  A time for us both to just be.  We don’t have to pretend with eachother, and that will be good.  Ironically, even our destination will be different.  Change is the theme of this year!  Two weeks ago we received a call from our hotel alerting us that they have been sold and will be under renovation.  So after a good 10 years of staying in the same place, in the same room, we are being forced to explore a new adventure.  And in years past this would have thrown us for an emotional loop.  But not this time.  This new direction, given our circumstances, just seems par for the course (I can’t believe I am borrowing a term from a sport I loathe–golf.  Oh well, so be it.).

Today I reflect on many things…

My aunt who lost her husband the month before Cole had surgery.  I understand her rejections of offer to travel.  Home feels right, home is a comfort.  My cousins neighbor, who lost her fiance in the attacks of 9/11.  I understand her emmigration to California from New York, her need to escape the pain of her loss and I understand that though she has just welcomed her second baby into her California family, her love for her fallen remains.  I think of the family whose young freshman daughter collapsed and died while running cross country for her high school, this time of year back in 2007.  I understand that though it has been a few years since the tragic loss, the sorrow that results takes years to adjust to.  I reflect upon the rippling that ensues upon a family unit as result.  I know all too well my own rippling.

And yet, it is my aunt from whom I draw strength.  For while in her sorrow, she has remained available–even hospitable.  Strength from the hired help, whose warm presence would never have given their own loss away.  Strength from the neighbor whose courage is reflected in her new life.  Strength from so many who suffer and who do not allow sufferings touch to define all that they are.

Most days, I am surviving.  But today, as I am given a respite from the ‘having to’, I can thrive just a little bit.  My “covered mirrors and clocks” are gifting me the pause I have been longing for.  Today is ok.  Today, I am ok.

Today I am thankful.

 

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