Season of Eights

In my mind's eye, it is snowing.  The ground is crisp, hard beneath my 19 year-old feet and my nose is cold.  The trees are bare and dusted white and it seems a very long way from the car to the door.

In reality, it's warm for December.  Even by south Georgia standards.  My feet are bare on the deck and I'm watching the leaves drift into the yard while my coffee cools and I try to get a handle on the number of years passed.  Twenty seven.  More than half my life.   For twenty seven years I've been her mother.

This year has been a hard one, full of dread and endings and uncertainty as I've rolled the number 7 over and over in my head.  Seven years since she died.  Seven year itch.  Seven years and all the skin on my body that knew her touch is gone.  Seven years of watching my hair curl while it greys and knowing I look like a person she never saw.    Seven years and surprised to know how deeply I can still hurt.

This year has been a good one, too.  And that's been the most surprising thing of all.  Beginning to look forward and to move forward and beginning to know that life still  holds surprises and gifts.  Welcoming new beginnings, fresh starts, and finding love in the eyes of an old friend.  As I move into the season of eights -  eighth birthday with no cake, eighth Solstice with no dancing, eighth Christmas with no shrieks of laughter -  I am reminded that eight was her favorite number.   And I can still hear her voice, excited and sweet and forever convinced that the best of things was just about to happen:

 "If you turn Eight on its side, Maija, it turns into infinity.  Eight is magic in a way that Seven can never be.  Eight can last forever. "

Today, there will definitely be cake.

Back in The 'Boro

On Thursday afternoon, I took the not-too-long but winding road from Savannah to Statesboro, home of Georgia Southern University and My Girl's home for the last nine months of her life.   The occasion was the Fourth Annual Harbuck Memorial Scholarship reading and reception.   I am always a wreck the week before this event, tightly coiled and ready to jump out of my skin.  And it's always a lot of angst for mostly naught; the night is always wonderful and this year was no exception.   More of my family were able to come this year than ever before, and it was sweet to share the front row with my mom and my sisters, my sister-in-law and my nephew, and my best friend.

For those of you who were not able to be there, here's the welcome speech I gave and a snapshot of the incredible talent that surrounded us.

First, I want to thank you all for being here tonight.   Eric, Laura, and Emma, thank you for all of your efforts in bringing this year's award to fruition.  Each year when I hear the nominees read I am grateful I am not the one who's left to choose among them.   So, thank you, for doing that hard work.  Thank you, too, Tina, for not running the other way when I accosted you on a sidewalk in downtown Savannah last fall and for generously, and without hesitation,  agreeing to be our judge this year.  It's been a pleasure getting to know  you and I am looking forward to your reading tomorrow night.

This has become the most meaningful night of my year.    I am grateful every day for the continued connection to Georgia Southern and to the Department of Writing & Linguistics this scholarship brings, but this night...this is my celebration; my opportunity to honor what really was the distilled essence of my daughter's life: her love of the written word.  She was an insatiable reader and she was a fierce and fearless writer; she pushed boundaries - both on and off the page - and challenged everyone around her to be the bravest, most outrageous  version of themselves they could imagine.   

She had big dreams and solid plans.   She had a laser-sharp vision of the world as she thought it should be and an unwavering confidence in the power of language to shape that world.  To make it a reality.   And, this night - in the company of so many young people who love words in that same way and who recognize the power of language to transform  - is a gift I will never stop appreciating.

Chris, I cannot tell you how much I am looking forward to hearing your new work.   I was particularly pleased to hear you were this year's winner.  As I am sure you're aware, this small mountain of books from writers & readers across the country now belongs to you.   Each one represents someone who not only loved my girl and her work, but who believes in you and yours.  We all wish you - and all of this year's nominees -  the best and will be expecting powerful, life-shaping, world-changing  words from each of you in years to come.

Thanksgiving Confession

There are still many moments (probably more than I should admit to) when I catch myself thinking "Oh, she's going to love this..." right before I remember I cannot call her. I can talk to her (and I do, probably also more than I should admit) but I really cannot describe how sad it is not to be able to share everyday things with my girl.

So, I am going to occasionally foist them on you throw them out into the blogosphere instead. First up is Thanksgiving Related News She Would Have Loved: I found a Pilgrim in our family tree. An honest-to-goodness Mayflower-Compact-Signing Pilgrim (two really, if you count his Excommunicated-from-the-Church-of-England Separatist Pilgrim Wife, which we do).

Really, this would have tickled her funny bone and made her extremely proud, all at the same time. Straight-laced Puritans! Rebellious Roots! Seventeen generations from the Mayflower to My Girl. Fun Stuff.

Brittany Alaina Harbuck

14th Great Granddaughter of James Chilton, Signer of the Mayflower Compact

[Note: There are now an estimated 30 million Mayflower Descendants wandering the globe. We regret we cannot invite all of them to dinner.]

Admit It

Some days, you'd just like to say this A Lot.



Today was one of those days.

Fragments & Flowers

Occasionally, I stumble on a quote that really resonates. Today it was this one:

“There is a beginning and an ending for everything that is alive. In between is living.”

From Lifetimes by Bryan Mellonie and Robert Ingpen

I like it. Also, these:

Remembering Kandy

The night I met Kandy Sims she earned a permanent place in my heart. I didn't expect and I wouldn't have bet on it, but it happened.

It was the fall of 2007, and the freshman dorms had just opened at SCAD. Kandy and her husband, Mike, had spent the day moving their son into his home-away-from-home. The Sims are a musical family, so after the unpacking was finished and the teenager made it clear he didn't need them to hang around, Kandy and Mike headed for River Street to check out the local acts. Chance brought them into the Bayou where Dave was on stage. I wish I could remember how we started talking, but I don't. Bars are crowded and loud and I am used to fielding questions about Dave (I'm With The Band), handing out business cards, and occasionally booking gigs while he's playing. I do remember that we hadn't been talking long when I asked what brought them to Savannah.

You know where this is going, right? She told me about her kid and then, because it's what moms do, she asked about mine. Did I have them, how old...and I told her, in that oddly-tensed way, 'I have a daughter. She died about year and half ago in a motorcycle accident.'

And, for the first time in that year and half, someone new - someone who hadn't known me Before and who never knew my girl - stepped towards me instead of taking that oh so perceptible half-step back. In a moment where most people murmur and move away, she chose to stay. I never forgot it.

We ended up hanging out with Kandy and Mike that whole night and saw them several more times over the years when they'd come from Atlanta to Savannah to visit their son. We saw them in Atlanta, too, catching Mike's show when we were visiting family there.

Kandy and Mike's son graduated from SCAD yesterday, but she wasn't here to see it. Kandy died in April and I will always miss her. Her particular kindness - because that's what it was, truly, a kindness - remains a rare thing and Kandy's initial reaction has become the yardstick by which all new people are measured. Not many people have passed that test.

And...We're Back!

If you read this blog, chances are you know me fairly well. It will not surprise you to know my family often describes me as 'mouthy.' I prefer 'outspoken' or 'opinionated'; 'firm in her convictions' is a personal favorite and I'll even cop readily to 'righteously indignant' but, perspective matters too and sometimes I AM mouthy. As a child, I was a back-talker, even if the highly charged atmosphere in my home meant that back-talk was always under my breath and most often into a pillow. As an adult, I stopped muttering and whispering and found my voice. There's not much silence in my corner of the world.

And, since Britt's death and the subsequent loss of filters that comes, frankly, from having little left to lose, it's only gotten, well, louder. I say what I think. What I believe is not a mystery. No one ever has to wonder where I stand on an issue, large or small. This isn't always easy to live with, I know, and I appreciate each and every one of you who's hung in there. Because, I do believe it matters. It's important to know yourself and what you stand for. And it's important to stand and be counted, especially if what you are standing up for might make a difference in the lives of others.

Facebook, for all its silly games and sometimes endless repetitions of dinner menus also offers a space to make a stand, to spread the word. I often link to articles I read that move or anger me; post news updates that cheer or horrify me; and, yes, call people out when they post something that sticks in my craw, makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up, or just leaves me thinking 'What?! Really?!' I had one of those "are you kidding me?" moments yesterday. Through my dear friend Renee, I've become FB friends with Connie Schultz. [For those of you who are not familiar with her work, Connie is, among other things, a Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist, a columnist for the Cleveland Plain Dealer, an author, a political activist and, because it's an important part of this story, also the wife of Senator Sherrod Brown. I am a long-time admirer of the Writer and the Senator, both.] On Thursday evening, Connie posted this picture on her page:



On Friday morning, I was a little shocked to see it there. I clicked to see what she had to say and, well, the next part of this story is Connie's to tell, so in her words - with her permission - this is what happened next:

"Yesterday, I posted this photo and shared an exchange I had with a stranger who doubted that I could have an Eagle Scout in our home. (Sherrod and both of his brothers are Eagle Scouts.) This bumper sticker was meant to communicate my pride in my husband, and illustrate that conservatives have no monopoly on public service.

Today, Debi Carey Harbuck posted a comment that took me aback: "Connie, I have to tell you this disappoints me. Not your witty come-back to Guy #1, who clearly has an attitude problem, but you and the Senator, both, actively and publicly supporting (proudly!) an organization that openly discriminates against gays in the name of 'god' and 'faith.'"

Whoa.

I assured Debi that Sherrod and I have been in the trenches for decades on behalf of our LGBT friends and family members, but she pushed back: "I most certainly do respect your activism, and as the mother and step-mother of LGBTs, I have to respectfully disagree with this one choice. In places where institutionalized discrimination is entrenched, your support, and the Senator's, serves to legitimize and makes it harder for those who are excluded to make their case. There are many fine organizations (which I know you also support) that do good work for fatherless children without standing beneath an umbrella of hate and fear. I don't believe the discriminatory policies of the BSA will change until not-gay Americans serve notice that it just won't be tolerated and withdraw their support."

Debi is right.

I removed the bumper sticker this morning. Not everyone here will agree with this decision, and, as always, I welcome the discussion. I'm still very proud of Sherrod's childhood accomplishment, but the message matters. I am grateful to Debi for her honesty, and her advocacy."

So. Today I am adding 'advocate' to my list of self-descriptors. And, I am going to keep on being a mouthy advocate for what I think is right. Because it matters. And because people are listening.

Solstice Season, Take Six

This is my sixth winter living in A World Without and, this year, I am trying (yet) another approach. This is the Year of Full-On Celebration. The tree has been up for weeks. Not only are there lights strung on the front porch, there's a fully-lit tree there, too. Sparkly, multi-colored lights twinkling from dusk til dawn.

Inside, there's a festive string, à la Donna Reed, bedecked with cards from near and far. I sent cards this year, and - so far - I'm running about a 55% return rate. (Which isn't bad when you take into account my 5-year hiatus.) I count all the cards received up to New Years Day, so it's looking pretty good, even if certain people have de-listed me. (You know who you are.)

I even shopped. Not excessively, not with abandon, but with a certain measure of the joy and trepidation of past years. Will he like it? Oh, she'll love this! And I chose a wrapping theme (silver foil papers with green and blue and white ribbons and bows) that Himself promptly corrupted with a gold foil box tied 'round with a deep red ribbon. (Mens!) I am fairly certain there's yummy chocolate from our newly opened neighborhood chocolatier in that box, so I am going to overlook it. (I am also going to move it before the official Picture of the Tree - 2010 is taken. But then I'm going to put it back.)

There's a lot to celebrate this year. My Girl's Nana (also known as my dearest MIL) has come to live with us. While the reasons for it are not particularly celebratory, it's a joy and comfort to have her under our roof. There have been babies and rumors of babies. A wedding. Many plans for the future. There's been new sadness as well, fresh grief to lay over the the too-fresh grief that already blankets our world. In short, life keeps happening.

Which brings us here, to the Winter Solstice. The moon hung full and bright in the not-quite-dark sky as I drove home from work Monday evening. And as I twisted and turned along the marsh's edge I could hear Britt's voice, clear as a bell. 'We're going to build a fire, Maija, and dance around it while the moon rises! Winter's death knell...just as it begins, it begins to end. That's an excellent reason for a party, I think!'

So do I, Baby Girl. So do I.

Skinks For Lisa

Today is my dear friend Lisa's birthday and I hope it's filled with all the things she loves most in the world.

For you, honey. First, the skink we all know; look at the blue in his tail. Gorgeous.



And, the skink I discovered this spring, and am trying hard to love. Aren't they prehistoric? Itty bitty dinosaurs that stalk the garden.



As Britt would say "here leeezard, leezard..."

This Is What Is

Since Britt was killed, April and May have been hard. The anniversary of her death followed so closely by Mother's Day is a one-two sucker punch from the universe. I think about karma, and wonder what I am supposed to be working out. Where is the lesson? What is the lesson? I think about reincarnation and wonder what I could possibly have gotten wrong before that this is the answer to getting it right. I think about unanswered prayers and I wonder why it's surprises anyone that it's just easier to let go and not believe in anything anymore.

Every day is a colossal effort. Get up. Get dressed. Go to work. Focus. Be anywhere but inside your head. Smile. Maintain. Carry on. When people say 'Hi! How are you?' Say 'Fine, thanks! You?' Do not say 'Angry.' Do not say 'Losing my mind.' Do not say 'Have you lost your mind?!' Above all, do not say 'My heart is breaking a thousand times a day.' 'Fine, thanks! You?' is just easier for everyone. Because this is what is. She is gone and she is not coming back and there are countless, numberless days to manage.

There are gardens to plant and rooms to tidy. Laundry and dishes and floors that need attention. Decisions to make and plans to follow and all the flotsam and jetsam of life that continues to accumulate...regardless. And, June is coming.

A Short Announcement

You may or may not have noticed, but in the last few weeks there has been a lot of comment-spam here. In an effort to reduce it, I have enabled the word-verification feature on posts. I apologize for the inconvenience (my eyes aren't what they used to be, either) and hope you'll keep chiming in.

Today's Poem

This is the poem I woke to find in my in box this morning. That is all.

Graves We Filled Before the Fire
by Gabrielle Calvocoressi

Some lose children in lonelier ways:
tetanus, hard falls, stubborn fevers

that soak the bedclothes five nights running.
Our two boys went out to skate, broke

through the ice like battleships, came back
to us in canvas bags: curled

fossils held fast in ancient stone,
four hands reaching. Then two

sad beds wide enough for planting
wheat or summer-squash but filled

with boys, a barren crop. Our lives
stripped clean as oxen bones.

The Gathering Storm

I have been laying in provisions. It's an odd assortment, some tangible and some not, and the pile increases as small offerings arrive in the mail from far-away friends who know instinctively what is lacking. Cards and funny signs and Emily Dickenson are added to the pile of potato chips and dark chocolate and red wine. They are necessary. I place them next to the recent memories of good visits that are waiting to be wrapped around me when I cannot get warm. Poems come through the ether, seeking me out and the rose bush is collapsing beneath the weight of its blooms.

Just me and the otters, I held them so close
I felt the bump of ghosts as I held them.
There is no poem that will bring back the dead
There is no poem that I could ever say that will
Arise the dead in their slumber, their faces gone
There is no poem or song I could sing to you
That would make me seem more beautiful
If there were such songs I would sing them
O they would hear me singing from here until dawn

- From Dorothea Lasky's Me and the Otters

Then Again, Maybe Not

Perhaps April isn't the best month to challenge myself to a daily-posting spree? The garden is going in and that takes most of my free time. I'm also trying to throw together a last minute wedding shower (by sheer force of will, it's going to be just lovely, I swear) and get ready for two of my dearest friends to visit. And, you know, it's April and just holding on to my sanity is a lot work some days. I don't have time to read a poem a day, much less the inclination to think about randomly selected verse winging its way through the ether. So we're letting go of the Poem-A-Day-Posting theme.

That said, this poem is lovely. Ms. Lerman's work has already earned a space on my shelves.

Small Talk
by Eleanor Lerman


It is a mild day in the suburbs
Windy, a little gray. If there is
sunlight, it enters through the
kitchen window and spreads
itself, thin as a napkin, beside
the coffee cup, pie on a plate

What am I describing?
I am describing a dream
in which nobody has died

These are our mothers:
your mother and mine
It is an empty day; everyone
else is gone. Our mothers
are sitting in red chairs
that look like metal hearts
and they are smoking
Your mother is wearing
sandals and a skirt. My
mother is thinking about
dinner. The bread, the meat

Later, there will be
no reason to remember
this, so remember it
now: a safe day. Time
passes into dim history.

And we are their babies
sleeping in the folds of
the wind. Whatever our
chances, these are the
women. Such small talk
before life begins

A New Month

It's April and National Poetry Month is upon us. I haven't always known about National Poetry Month but I do now and I'm glad. I've signed up for a poem-a-day from the American Academy of Poets. (Isn't it marvelous such a thing exists?) I'm looking forward to seeing what each morning brings to my in-box and I plan to share them with you here if I find I have anything at all to say about them. I hope to share every day, mostly because I think it would be sad (and also a touch embarrassing) to read a poem and have nothing to say about it all.

Today's poem is marvelous. It's has history and almost-but-not-quite-forgotten people and the old houses haunted by them and also a touch of melancholy about ticky-tacky houses too close together that have become our norm. This poem reminds me to remember the many women who've made homes in this old house and gardened under the shade of these old trees. Also to be grateful for the view of pastures from my kitchen window. Everyday I walk in well-worn footsteps and it's good to be reminded of that.

Here's Philip Levine's A Story: A Story - Poets.org

And here's my beautiful old house.

My Friends

I have the best friends in the world. Every day, they give me little pieces of themselves in dozens of big and little ways. I would not be here, or anywhere realy, without them. They make each day mean something, and some days that's much more than I can do for myself

For instance, Lisa sent me this poem a few days ago and it's been pinging around in my head - and propping me up - ever since.

The Mystery of Meteors
by Eleanor Lerman
I am out before dawn, marching a small dog through a meager park Boulevards angle away, newspapers fly around like blind white birds Two days in a row I have not seen the meteors though the radio news says they are overhead Leonid's brimstones are barred by clouds; I cannot read the signs in heaven, I cannot see night rendered into fire And yet I do believe a net of glitter is above me You would not think I still knew these things: I get on the train, I buy the food, I sweep, discuss, consider gloves or boots, and in the summer, open windows, find beads to string with pearls You would not think that I had survived anything but the life you see me living now In the darkness, the dog stops and sniffs the air She has been alone, she has known danger, and so now she watches for it always and I agree, with the conviction of my mistakes. But in the second part of my life, slowly, slowly, I begin to counsel bravery. Slowly, slowly, I begin to feel the planets turning, and I am turning toward the crackling shower of their sparks These are the mysteries I could not approach when I was younger: the boulevards, the meteors, the deep desires that split the sky Walking down the paths of the cold park I remember myself, the one who can wait out anything So I caution the dog to go silently, to bear with me the burden of knowing what spins on and on above our heads For this is our reward:Come Armageddon, come fire or flood, come love, not love, millennia of portents-- there is a future in which the dog and I are laughing Born into it, the mystery, I know we will be saved

And, Another Thing

Here's a podcast of an interview with Meghan O'Rourke. More good stuff, and interesting to note that many of the ideas we've shared here keep surfacing again and again.

A Podcast with Meghan O'Rourke : The New Yorker

Finding a better way to grieve: From The New Yorker

For any of you who are interested, here's a link to the New Yorker story Cara mentioned. Excellent reading.

Finding a better way to grieve: newyorker.com

Further Thoughts

I've been thinking about yesterday's post all day and I think what bugs me the most is the way these sorts of things - seeds of pop-science wisdom - seep into the culture. They affect the way all of us are treated by our physicians, how we're perceived by the people around us, and even how we view ourselves. More distorted scales and faulty yardsticks by which we can weigh and measure and find ourselves lacking or failing or falling behind.

Yesterday's example is cranky-making one, but the most egregious example I can think of is the continuing misunderstanding of what we have come to call the Stages of Grief. Forty-ish years ago, Elisabeth Kubler-Ross* wrote a wonderful book called On Death and Dying in which she examined the psychological process of coming to terms with one's own, imminent death. Her work changed for the better the way we deal with the terminally ill on every level. Somehow, early on, her research was co-opted by the culture of grieving and soon everyone dealing with death (their own or anyone else's) or just about any form of loss (being fired, getting divorced, moving, etc.) was urged to 'work the stages.' You remember the stages, right? 1.Denial 2. Anger 3. Bargaining 4. Depression 5. Acceptance. And, following Acceptance comes the unofficial sixth stage: Moving On.

Moving On is also known as 'getting back to normal' or 'getting over it.' And that's the stage that other people are really waiting for. Unfortunately, this life I'm living now isn't about stages. Nor should it be. There's plenty of current research on grief and bereavement that does not support the Stages model and, increasingly, therapists and support organizations that specialize in bereavement are moving towards recognizing that grief and grieving are not a cookie-cutter, step-by-step process. Unlike preparing for one's own death, there's not a definitive end in sight...there's just life - as much of it as might be left - to navigate. Unfortunately, it's taking a while for that message to reach the general (and not so general) public.

So, consider this me doing my part to spread the word. Because, I assure you, when your child dies, there is nothing neat about grieving; it does not happens in stages. It just is.



*I wanted her to have her umlaut, and I still don't know how to make them. I am reduced to stealing umlauts.

It's The Little Things

It really is. The small smile-making things that can turn a day around. And also the littlest indignities and slights that can spawn a thunderstorm in your head.

For instance, earlier this evening I was wandering around a website that belongs to a friend of a friend. Just clicking through pages, really, getting a feel for the layout and the sorts articles they publish when a comment about stressors caught my eye: divorce was the second most stressful event, topped only by the death of a spouse. Seriously? Who makes these lists?

Now, I don't fault the website, or even the person who wrote the article, because you can find these "life stressors scales" just about anywhere (I've seen dozens of them) and - unless you are reading a list specifically ranking types of grief - you're not going to find "Surviving The Death of Your Child" on any of them. And, I'm not arguing the stress-factor of either of those events; I've been divorced (okay, a few times) and while I've not buried a spouse, I have read enough about grieving to know I'm in no hurry to. However, most of these lists are based on the Mother Of All Lists, also known as the Holmes-Rahe Scale. There's no child-death mentioned on the HRS...and so no child-death on any of the other lists either.

I wish I could make this go away by ignoring it, but I can't. The grief is huge and real and everyday is, as Renee once said, like walking a minefield. Even if it isn't on the list.

This is my Buddha Frog, dusted with snow. Imagine.