Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Sunday, June 22, 2008
The Memory Box
Being home. What is odd about being home is that though you are living in the present the past seems to be right along side you, more present and more tangible than it is when you are off in your world, the world you have created. It makes me wonder, do we run from home because it stifles us? Unable to really shake the past, how can we ever create the present? Or do we leave out roots because sometimes the weight of the past is too heavy to live in the present? All of these thoughts came rushing at me today when I picked up my little brother from his house, the house where my mom used to live before she passed away. Every time I come home to visit and go over there, my skin tingles, my eyes water and my body floods with emotion. As I walk through that door, I see the kitchen she used to cook in, the coffee maker she would stand smiling at as we chatted from the table as she made coffee for my visit. The pictures are still on the walls, her smile, her presence everywhere. Its eery because everything is the same, and my brain for one split second expects her to emerge, harried from the other room, telling me to sit, make myself at home, she will be in in a minute. But it doesn't happen, instead as I wait for my brother I stare into the kitchen, into the clean sanitary emptiness that now exists, and try to imagine her, her smile, cooking food, hosting, doing 8 million things at once, her energy, her love. And I wonder...does my brother feel this every morning when he awakes up, that brief feeling of hope that as he emerges from his bed, he will wake to my mom preparing breakfast, smiling, good morning hugs? It haunts me just to imagine this. Today's trip was even harder as Mike found a box of memories my mom had stored, old cards, letters we had written her. Tangible traces of the past, staring at me in the present. As I opened the cards and read the letters I was struck with pain, grief, happiness and confusion all at once. As I read each word I envisioned my mom placing them in her box of memories, treasuring the loving words of her children. The past was here with me, I was holding it. Old thoughts, old emotions, read by my mom, held by my mom, stored by my mom. I slowly read the old letters and cards and was doing alright, sad but alright until I got to that one....as I unfolded it I saw it was a Christmas card from my sister to my mom, each and every line was sweeter than the next. But then it hit me and it hit hard, at the end of the letter my sister has written a quote, a quote a stumbled over, barely able to see through the tears when I finished. Reading the quote left me light headed and weak...it read "Without you, there'd be no sun in my sky, there would be no love in my life, there'd be no world left of me...I love you! Merry Christmas!" "There'd be no world left of me" That line I couldn't let it go, it ran through me head over and over and over again. Those words, they ran through my mind and I suddenly understood my sisters pain on a whole new level. Those words so beautifully describe her relationship with my mom, and I wanted nothing more than to hug my sister at that very moment and let her know I could feel her pain and sense her loss. I also wanted to tell her how proud I was of her, the person she had become, the amazing, hard working, smart, funny, kind, intelligent woman she is, despite losing a large part of her world. Those words will have to wait for it is too late to call now. For the rest of us I just have to say...life is short, tell the people in your life how you feel. Write a letter. Send a card. Make it into their memory box, so one day you too can hold the past and know the people you loved knew how you felt and treasured the words you wrote. Maybe the past is not so scary after all, it reminds us that there is nothing more precious than the present. Maybe the weight of the past can propel us to action, maybe it can inspire us to open up, seize these precious seconds and live......
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
This moment
Do you ever look around and think I want nothing more than this moment? Often I am so caught in the past or planning for the future that I don't stop to live, breathe, and savor. Tonight was one of a few times recently that I wanted nothing more than to be right where I was doing exactly what I was doing, and it was odd to feel that sense that there was no time better than this very moment. My dad whipped up an amazing meal, and as I sat around the table eating dinner with the family and our special guest I thought to myself, this is so amazing, I want nothing more than to live every last bit of these fleeting minutes, watching as they passed on the clock ahead. As I looked around that room I thought, this is it, this is LIVING, when you want nothing else but this very moment. I have my trials, I have my worries, and I have bad days and good but today was one of those days where everything was so clear... and I thought to myself, I am so lucky to have the life I have and to be surrounded with the people I have in my life. There is no better feeling than being content, and it is a feeling I often don't let myself feel, but when I let it in, when I realize all of the great things in my life it feels good, it feels beyond good, it makes me feel alive.
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Inspiration
What happens? In between moments of pure exhilaration where the ideas flow faster than I can type and I worry about all of the ideas I am losing as I furiously try to jot them down, to those moments where every last bit of creative inspiration seems to have been mysteriously sucked from my veins. Today is one of those days. In fact it seems it has been a string of those days. My motivation to read. to write. to be inspired. all seem to have gone missing. I would be very worried except this has happened before, but it forces me to wonder where do those thoughts go? Should we seek inspiration within ourselves, searching deep for emotions gone missing? Should we seek inspiration from others, hoping their insights will remind us what lies hidden in ourselves? Should we seek yet another outlet? At times it seems writing makes so much sense to me. I sit down, I create, I feel and at the end of it all I have turned my own life questions and emotions into some sort of piece that others can read. This process, the act of putting my thoughts out there into the world has some sort of therapeutic quality. Putting the words out there finalizes them, secures a place for emotions, where one day I make look back and reunite with past questions/thoughts/feelings. At other times though, writing leaves me frustrated, uninspired and makes me feel worse than when I began. On those days I run. I find running therapeutic because it is one of the most absurd things ever, but also one of the most meaningful. To spend an hour off running, and arrive right back where you started. To run down the same roads you drive or bike but see them in a different light. Running reconnects me to the present, to my breath, to every step....and for me, a person who often spends far too much time in the past or the future those moments of "present" are the very moments I need more of.
Wednesday, May 07, 2008
Really? Forever?
Really? Forever?
Her normally strong voice suddenly quivers
The small tears welling up in the corner of her guys
Give away the pain she so deeply hides
I have no explanation
All I can say is
I too have those moments
They suddenly emerge
Puncturing my normalcy, reminding me that
A wound so deep may heal, but you will forever bare the scar
And like new skin, this new sense of self is different
Despite the years that may go by, this piece will forever be different
Sometime it catches you off guard, lifting your shirt off to go for a swim
A friend may startle you, where did you get that scar.
Its like that. Sudden. Abrupt. Right when you least expect it.
Its then you realize. This healing you thought was over. Its not.
Healing. For some reason we assume healing is a return to normal.
But just as that piece of skin will forever stand out, will never fully integrate itself with the whole.
So too. This wound, will carry with it the story of pain.
The scar then is not the bodies way of healing. It is the bodies way of telling a story.
If it wanted to heal, it would never be visible.
But no. The scar. It tells a story.
And we each have a story, our wounds, though deep and hidden.
They serve to remind us of the pain. Our vulnerability.
And thats all I can say.
It does not make sense. It does not help the pain.
This wound will forever be there. It will remind me at moments I least expect.
That there are things beyond my explanation. That I have been to the depths of sadness.
But I have emerged. I will not be the same. I will not understand forever.
And somehow with all of that I will just have to be. Be me. Be scared. Be hopeful. Be confused.
Her normally strong voice suddenly quivers
The small tears welling up in the corner of her guys
Give away the pain she so deeply hides
I have no explanation
All I can say is
I too have those moments
They suddenly emerge
Puncturing my normalcy, reminding me that
A wound so deep may heal, but you will forever bare the scar
And like new skin, this new sense of self is different
Despite the years that may go by, this piece will forever be different
Sometime it catches you off guard, lifting your shirt off to go for a swim
A friend may startle you, where did you get that scar.
Its like that. Sudden. Abrupt. Right when you least expect it.
Its then you realize. This healing you thought was over. Its not.
Healing. For some reason we assume healing is a return to normal.
But just as that piece of skin will forever stand out, will never fully integrate itself with the whole.
So too. This wound, will carry with it the story of pain.
The scar then is not the bodies way of healing. It is the bodies way of telling a story.
If it wanted to heal, it would never be visible.
But no. The scar. It tells a story.
And we each have a story, our wounds, though deep and hidden.
They serve to remind us of the pain. Our vulnerability.
And thats all I can say.
It does not make sense. It does not help the pain.
This wound will forever be there. It will remind me at moments I least expect.
That there are things beyond my explanation. That I have been to the depths of sadness.
But I have emerged. I will not be the same. I will not understand forever.
And somehow with all of that I will just have to be. Be me. Be scared. Be hopeful. Be confused.
Tuesday, May 06, 2008
random thoughts
a quote i found recently that i thought made a good point:
"The simple possibility of achieving that which we desire causes the soul of the common man to be filled with guilt. He looks around, and sees many others who have not succeeded, and so he thinks he does not deserve it. He forgets everything he overcame, all he suffered, everything he had to renounce in order to come this far."
Also I was struck by a passage in Deleuze about the refrain in music...as he points out the refrain is just that a repetition of that which we already heard, but each time we get to the refrain we hear it differently (as we are a result of what came before it) and also are about to embark on a new journey for the next piece after the refrain will be new. Viewed in this way the refrain is kind of like life. Each day is resembles repetition (some days more than others) you know the usual wake up, eat, shower, work, lunch, procrastinate, break, eat, run, study whatever. The point is though that we have two choices: first, we can let the refrain be mere repetition, not alerting ourselves to how we have changed and the possibility for changes that emerges with each day. second, we can look at the refrain, the repetition, as a small bit of the puzzle, serving as that piece which we are both familiar with, but which we approach each and every time with new experience. In a good piece of music the refrain is central and a good artist turns mere repetition into a musical experience. And that I guess is the aim of life, to view the refrain as music not mere repetition. Did that make any sense....or am I asleep at the keys?
"The simple possibility of achieving that which we desire causes the soul of the common man to be filled with guilt. He looks around, and sees many others who have not succeeded, and so he thinks he does not deserve it. He forgets everything he overcame, all he suffered, everything he had to renounce in order to come this far."
Also I was struck by a passage in Deleuze about the refrain in music...as he points out the refrain is just that a repetition of that which we already heard, but each time we get to the refrain we hear it differently (as we are a result of what came before it) and also are about to embark on a new journey for the next piece after the refrain will be new. Viewed in this way the refrain is kind of like life. Each day is resembles repetition (some days more than others) you know the usual wake up, eat, shower, work, lunch, procrastinate, break, eat, run, study whatever. The point is though that we have two choices: first, we can let the refrain be mere repetition, not alerting ourselves to how we have changed and the possibility for changes that emerges with each day. second, we can look at the refrain, the repetition, as a small bit of the puzzle, serving as that piece which we are both familiar with, but which we approach each and every time with new experience. In a good piece of music the refrain is central and a good artist turns mere repetition into a musical experience. And that I guess is the aim of life, to view the refrain as music not mere repetition. Did that make any sense....or am I asleep at the keys?
Thursday, May 01, 2008
another memory
bear with this post it is kind of a flow of thoughts that I had hoped to turn into a story, for now Ill just post here in its very rough form....
The airplane ride from California to New York was like no other. In some way he stood in this hybrid space. Suspended over the interior of the US, no longer in California, not yet in New York there was still the potential that this was a false alarm, there was no room for reality at 30,000 feet. Instead he sat and wondered. Do any of these people know. Does anyone on this plane have a clue? To them I look like just some guy going back to New York. Little do they know that I have just suffered an immeasurable loss, my life though normal at this suspended moment would forever be different once I stepped off that plane. No one prepares you for the day when you have to bury a parent. No one prepares you for how it feels to be flying home, and yet knowing home will never be the same. There are no words to measure the time it takes to go somewhere when you are already there and never will be there at the same time. And this is how he felt. He knew what awaited him upon disembarking from the plane, but here amidst the clouds one was left to wonder if maybe upon landing things had changed, there had been a mix up, something anything. There was not a rational thought running through his head, and he knew this, but hope overrides rationality any day. In stead he dosed off, stared, contemplated, did anything he could to in order to fill this 6 hour trip with something.
Stepping off the plane the cold New York air hit him hard. It took his breath away and it somehow felt that the cold air was a warning. Go back it said, get back on the plane and pretend this never happened, there is nothing here to see. Pressing on he walked the cold corridor from the plane to the baggage claim, anxious, nervous, unready. Those last few steps, he saw the revolving doors and he saw the face of man unready to give the sort of explanations and condolences he had to. He saw the face of a man that also seemed to wish he would go back so that he would not have to see his sons heart break. He saw the face of a man who knew that he could no longer protect his son, that he would have to see his son hurt, he would have to let this pain take him and have him. He had never seen his fathers face like that before. The normal airport smile, the normal bright eyes. But no, those eyes were filled with the smooth film of pre tears, the head sunk as if trying to shoulder the pain for both of them. And then slowly as he emerged from the doors, the embrace. They both sort of fell into each other, lost for words, they did what came natural and hugged. In that hug each knew there was a pain beyond words, the cold embrace said more then they could ever say. His fathers embrace tried to apologize, it tried to make him understand, it tried one last time to protect and foster. The awkward small chat quickly passed as they stood watching each and every bag go by. Another cold walk to the car and then it was something he would never forget. For lack of words, for lack of knowing what else to do his father handed him the paper.
“Its right there he said” pointing to the small article at the bottom of the page of the Newsday that gave a brief and very sterile definition of the disaster. And at that moment it hit him. Just as the black type from the newspaper stained his hands, the cold reality of it all stuck to him as well. There was no more in between, no more wondering, there it was in cold black print. The beautiful life of a mother summed up in those few words.. “head on” “collision” “9:10” “December 9th” “fatal”. With those words he lost all hope, and it became clear that he was indeed going to have to face this. There was no mistake. This was no dream. This was cold hard reality. Welcome to the real world it whispered. He was lost. He was confused. He turned on the radio and looked at the morning sky. You have been gone 1 day already he thought into the air. And already it feels like too long.
The airplane ride from California to New York was like no other. In some way he stood in this hybrid space. Suspended over the interior of the US, no longer in California, not yet in New York there was still the potential that this was a false alarm, there was no room for reality at 30,000 feet. Instead he sat and wondered. Do any of these people know. Does anyone on this plane have a clue? To them I look like just some guy going back to New York. Little do they know that I have just suffered an immeasurable loss, my life though normal at this suspended moment would forever be different once I stepped off that plane. No one prepares you for the day when you have to bury a parent. No one prepares you for how it feels to be flying home, and yet knowing home will never be the same. There are no words to measure the time it takes to go somewhere when you are already there and never will be there at the same time. And this is how he felt. He knew what awaited him upon disembarking from the plane, but here amidst the clouds one was left to wonder if maybe upon landing things had changed, there had been a mix up, something anything. There was not a rational thought running through his head, and he knew this, but hope overrides rationality any day. In stead he dosed off, stared, contemplated, did anything he could to in order to fill this 6 hour trip with something.
Stepping off the plane the cold New York air hit him hard. It took his breath away and it somehow felt that the cold air was a warning. Go back it said, get back on the plane and pretend this never happened, there is nothing here to see. Pressing on he walked the cold corridor from the plane to the baggage claim, anxious, nervous, unready. Those last few steps, he saw the revolving doors and he saw the face of man unready to give the sort of explanations and condolences he had to. He saw the face of a man that also seemed to wish he would go back so that he would not have to see his sons heart break. He saw the face of a man who knew that he could no longer protect his son, that he would have to see his son hurt, he would have to let this pain take him and have him. He had never seen his fathers face like that before. The normal airport smile, the normal bright eyes. But no, those eyes were filled with the smooth film of pre tears, the head sunk as if trying to shoulder the pain for both of them. And then slowly as he emerged from the doors, the embrace. They both sort of fell into each other, lost for words, they did what came natural and hugged. In that hug each knew there was a pain beyond words, the cold embrace said more then they could ever say. His fathers embrace tried to apologize, it tried to make him understand, it tried one last time to protect and foster. The awkward small chat quickly passed as they stood watching each and every bag go by. Another cold walk to the car and then it was something he would never forget. For lack of words, for lack of knowing what else to do his father handed him the paper.
“Its right there he said” pointing to the small article at the bottom of the page of the Newsday that gave a brief and very sterile definition of the disaster. And at that moment it hit him. Just as the black type from the newspaper stained his hands, the cold reality of it all stuck to him as well. There was no more in between, no more wondering, there it was in cold black print. The beautiful life of a mother summed up in those few words.. “head on” “collision” “9:10” “December 9th” “fatal”. With those words he lost all hope, and it became clear that he was indeed going to have to face this. There was no mistake. This was no dream. This was cold hard reality. Welcome to the real world it whispered. He was lost. He was confused. He turned on the radio and looked at the morning sky. You have been gone 1 day already he thought into the air. And already it feels like too long.
running from who i am...becoming who i want to be
"Becoming isn't part of history; history amounts only to the set of preconditions, however recent, that one leaves behind in order to become, that is to create something new." -Deleuze
How do we remember? How do we forget? Where exactly is remembering located? How does our body remember?
So I am not literally running from myself if you will. The title of the post comes from a thought I had last night on a run. I have not run much in the past few years, instead relying on the cliche line I was a runner to justify who I used to be and who I could become should I want to. But after weeks of feeling that cool dark cloud of anxiety, sadness and pessimism descending upon me I found it time I better start running from who I am at this moment, to become who I want to be...running as my means of turning negative thoughts and emotion into positive energy with a little help from those exercise induced endorphins.
Running. My escape. My chemical of choice. After more time off then I care to admit, i laced up the shoes, threw on the IPOD and went for a run in the cool spring heat of davis. The instant I stepped out the door, memories of who I was quickly surged through my body. My muscles knew exactly what to do, my heart followed and my body was overwhelmed with the sense of confusion, it remembered in a way the runner I was while simultaneously giving into the runner I currently am, not quite as fast, or able to run quite as far. BUT that feeling was still there, in every step, cool sweat poring down in the evening heat, music blaring I felt alive, I felt happy and I felt content. The memory of runs long gone passed through me, the experiences, the highs the lows, it was all there memories unleashed with every foot strike. Blazing through streets (blazing being a relative term), I suddenly felt more of who I want to be and less of who I am. With every step my mind dropped the annoying academic debates running through my head, it dropped the anxiety, it dropped the doubt, it just was at that moment free to roam, to be to become. Mere chemicals, molecules flooding the brain as a result of the run changed my outlook, and gave me new perspective. Running reminded me that I am simultaneously not my past, and a product of my past all at the same time. It also reminded me that with every journey we start anew. I am not the runner I was, I may never be, but once I drop that sense of history I can become something new, a new me, a new runner, a new thought. So what is becoming? Its letting go of who you were, who you feel you have to be, and realizing that to create something new you need simply to act in the present.
How do we remember? How do we forget? Where exactly is remembering located? How does our body remember?
So I am not literally running from myself if you will. The title of the post comes from a thought I had last night on a run. I have not run much in the past few years, instead relying on the cliche line I was a runner to justify who I used to be and who I could become should I want to. But after weeks of feeling that cool dark cloud of anxiety, sadness and pessimism descending upon me I found it time I better start running from who I am at this moment, to become who I want to be...running as my means of turning negative thoughts and emotion into positive energy with a little help from those exercise induced endorphins.
Running. My escape. My chemical of choice. After more time off then I care to admit, i laced up the shoes, threw on the IPOD and went for a run in the cool spring heat of davis. The instant I stepped out the door, memories of who I was quickly surged through my body. My muscles knew exactly what to do, my heart followed and my body was overwhelmed with the sense of confusion, it remembered in a way the runner I was while simultaneously giving into the runner I currently am, not quite as fast, or able to run quite as far. BUT that feeling was still there, in every step, cool sweat poring down in the evening heat, music blaring I felt alive, I felt happy and I felt content. The memory of runs long gone passed through me, the experiences, the highs the lows, it was all there memories unleashed with every foot strike. Blazing through streets (blazing being a relative term), I suddenly felt more of who I want to be and less of who I am. With every step my mind dropped the annoying academic debates running through my head, it dropped the anxiety, it dropped the doubt, it just was at that moment free to roam, to be to become. Mere chemicals, molecules flooding the brain as a result of the run changed my outlook, and gave me new perspective. Running reminded me that I am simultaneously not my past, and a product of my past all at the same time. It also reminded me that with every journey we start anew. I am not the runner I was, I may never be, but once I drop that sense of history I can become something new, a new me, a new runner, a new thought. So what is becoming? Its letting go of who you were, who you feel you have to be, and realizing that to create something new you need simply to act in the present.
Friday, April 04, 2008
The Mo(u)rning of (A work in progress)
**Note: I lost my mom in a car accident on December 9th 2005. Sometimes when I think back to that morning I envision how all of the different people in my family went about their mornings that day, before the first phone call informing us that she has been lost. I know what my morning consisted of, and there is a little of that here, but what I find intriguing is wondering how that morning played out for different people. Below is one of these stories, focused on my little brother Matthew, who is now 9 and what his last morning with Mom was like. I warn you it may be sad to read, but in writing I find a weird sense of solace, so here it goes…**
The Mo(u)rning of
I wasn’t there. I had never been there. This exists only in my mind. A recreation of something I had never seen. And yet in my imagination I conjure up more sadness then I ever thought possible. I see innocence as I have never seen before. With that I will begin.
I picture it vividly. The cold December air, the darkness that hangs over the early morning, as if night is refusing to give up, that latent darkness that hangs on ever longer in those cold New York winters. I see his face waking up to her cool coaxing.
“Its time to wake up Matthew she says”
Little does she know he is already awake. I know he was already awake because in our conversations he told me how he thought it was funny that mom always used to wake him up because he actually woke up to the sound of her alarm. Maybe she knew too, but still needed the ritual of giving him a smile, a kiss and a nudge to wake up in the morning. Maybe he knew he could wake up, but laid in bed that cold December morning, like other mornings anticipating her bright smile, anticipating the good morning nudge. Anticipating her soothing voice that gave no indication of the rush she was in, to prepare breakfast, get dressed, pack his bags, get him on the bus and rush to work (hopefully) in time. None of that was apparent in her voice. Instead it was a calm affirmation of morning as if they had all day to get ready. That gentleness awoke him.
The time between. How do we look back? I don’t know how he looks back on those moments prior to the bus. The problem is we don’t realize whats coming. We are not prepared. I picture then not a little boy who paid close attention to every moment, knowing that these would be the last with his mother. No, instead I picture a little boy happily eating breakfast. No conception of death. No conception of ends. No conception of the pain of abandonment. A boy filled with the hopes of a 7 year old. A boy eating cereal with the unconscious assumption that his mother would be there in that very kitchen, watching him eat breakfast before his last day of high school. No sense of temporality. No sense of time. There was no rush to cram anything into these moments. Moments thought to be trivial and everyday that would turn out to be “last” moments. Those moments we don’t anticipate being the last, but are.
What I see next. Gathered from pieces of conversation with my grandmother and Matt scare me, haunt me and sadden me even though they only exist in my imagination. I see them walking out the door, Mom in her work clothes, Matt wearing his not so warm Yankees jacket, insisting “its not that cold mom.” She acknowledges him only with a smile that says, I love you even when you’re stubborn. As they wait for the bus they chatter, Matt with his friends, Mom with the neighbors. In every ones actions, words thoughts today is a day just like any other. How do we look back on those moments? How do we reflect? If only they had all known what was to come, would things have been different? Would they have savored the morning conversation? Savored last good byes?
All I see at that bus stop now is a little boy who has no idea the world that awaits him. I picture his smile, carefree and innocent. His funny laugh, his smirk, the ease with which he interacts with people. If only I could save him from this moment. As I play it back in my head I see it all happening but with that horrible feeling that I know the outcome. In my head I want to go back and tell him, hold on to that hug Matthew, get every ounce of goodbye from her for this is it, after this moment your life will never be the same. But it is like one of those horrible dreams where you try to speak but somehow you have lost all ability to make sound. So it goes, I play it over and over in my head. I envision the bus pulling up, the good bye hug she gives him.
From my conversations with Matt I do know what happened next. As he got on the bus she gave him a kiss goodbye, and told him they would go bowling that night. I can picture it now, the smile on his face at the prospect of a fun Friday night bowling with his mom, and the smile on her face, the joy she felt when ever he felt so happy. And that was it. Those last few seconds of normality for everyone. Its hard to picture this all because it seems like a dream, as I re create the scene over and over in my head I want to make it stop, change the outcome, or do something but instead it plays on.
In my head I see the bus pull away. Mom, taking a long deep gasp of the cold December air rushes to her car in order to make it to work on time. No time to wait, no time to ponder, just as quick as the bus moves out of view she is into the care and off to work. It is at this very moment that I want the world to halt. I want that little boy filled with the anticipation of Friday night bowling to return home to the warm arms of his mom. I want my mom filled with anxiety to simply be able to make it to work on time, and return home to do what she does best, deliver happiness to the lives of others. But just like a bad dream, I have no control over this scene. The bus pulls away, Matt gives one last wave and smile, Mom beams back blows him a kiss and that is it. At that very moment little did anyone know what was to come.
In a rush Mom hastily pulls out of the driveway, and on this cold December morning heads off to work. When I think this scene over I wonder what was she thinking? In those three short miles from the house to the scene of the accident what was going through her head. In my head I see the car moving, but I also see the last seconds of her life ticking away. I guess this is the problem with memory. Mom had no idea what awaited around that bend, though in my head I see her approaching that turn and want to intervene, save her, save us all. But time moves on. I like to think that in her last moments, as she was rushing to work, she was filled with thoughts of happiness and not worry. Knowing my Mom she was already plotting the day. Her mind raced always at speeds that most would find hard to comprehend. She was probably planning her first meeting, lunch, when she would get Matt, what she would cook for dinner, when they would go bowling. I wonder what was her last thought? As the car slid over that center median, and the van fast approached did she have time to think one last happy thought? Did all her worry disappear? Did she know this was it? Those moments somehow replay in my head more often then I would like. Those last few moments of life, somewhere in between 908 and 909 am on that morning she was here with us, rushing to work, going about the everyday, and then just like that she was not.
What is most odd to me is that although it was at 9:09 am that my Mom passed we all went about our daily lives. Matt was off to school anticipating his run Friday evening, Michelle was off to class, my alarm would be going off in 2 hours and I would be out the door to give a presentation at school. Up until some one realized Mom was not where she was suppose to be we were all living. All living with the assumption that our lives would remain the carefree, happy ones that they were at that very moment. Even while she was no longer with us, we went about the day as if she was, assuming she had made it to work, assuming today was a day just like every other. It is those moments that truly mess with my sense of time. I look back and see myself walking into class, thinking that this presentation was the most important thing of the day, nervous beyond belief. As I gave that presentation I had no idea of the phone call I would receive when I finished class and turned on my phone. We all have no idea when that moment is coming. In a way we have to live the lie that everything is normal until proven otherwise, if we did not we would go insane.
It feels odd to be writing this. At this point I must come to grips with how the story really ends. As I type these words I am forced to confront the fact that there is no going back. I will never be able to be at the bus stop urging Matthew to giver he one more hug, I will never be able to prevent her from rushing off to work, I will never be able to know her last thoughts. Instead I must relate the final moments as they occurred, not how I want them to be. This is how it happened….
Matthew returned home late that afternoon. Again, I was not there, and my imagination runs rampant but this is how I envision it. As the bus pulls up I wonder at which point he notices, something is wrong, someone is missing. Slowly the bus door opens up and instead of my Mom being there to greet him with a hug and take him bowling, he instead sees me grandmother, my aunts and his dad. As innocent as 7 year olds are I would venture to say some part of him knew something was certainly wrong. Could he tell on their faces the new they were about to deliver? Did he know that there would be no bowling and no hugs? Did he notice her car was not there? Just as I contemplate those last moments of my mother’s life, I also contemplate the last moments of my brother’s innocence. I see his each and every step as approaching that loss of innocence, and again I want to intervene to prevent his world from being crushed. I can not though. Just as I can not prevent myself from picking up that phone call, and hearing my father’s voice on the other line trembling like I have never heard it before. Just as I imagine my brother knew what had happened the moment he saw my mom was not at the bus stop, I somehow knew at the quaking of my father’s voice that I had lost my mom. He didn’t have to speak, he didn’t have to utter those words. It is akin to what Freud calls the uncanny, when you just know something, you become aware before you are told. I was aware I had lost my mom as my dad trembled out the words, “Bill, I don’t know how to tell you this…” And that is how it occurred, or at least what I remember about the morning of.
The Mo(u)rning of
I wasn’t there. I had never been there. This exists only in my mind. A recreation of something I had never seen. And yet in my imagination I conjure up more sadness then I ever thought possible. I see innocence as I have never seen before. With that I will begin.
I picture it vividly. The cold December air, the darkness that hangs over the early morning, as if night is refusing to give up, that latent darkness that hangs on ever longer in those cold New York winters. I see his face waking up to her cool coaxing.
“Its time to wake up Matthew she says”
Little does she know he is already awake. I know he was already awake because in our conversations he told me how he thought it was funny that mom always used to wake him up because he actually woke up to the sound of her alarm. Maybe she knew too, but still needed the ritual of giving him a smile, a kiss and a nudge to wake up in the morning. Maybe he knew he could wake up, but laid in bed that cold December morning, like other mornings anticipating her bright smile, anticipating the good morning nudge. Anticipating her soothing voice that gave no indication of the rush she was in, to prepare breakfast, get dressed, pack his bags, get him on the bus and rush to work (hopefully) in time. None of that was apparent in her voice. Instead it was a calm affirmation of morning as if they had all day to get ready. That gentleness awoke him.
The time between. How do we look back? I don’t know how he looks back on those moments prior to the bus. The problem is we don’t realize whats coming. We are not prepared. I picture then not a little boy who paid close attention to every moment, knowing that these would be the last with his mother. No, instead I picture a little boy happily eating breakfast. No conception of death. No conception of ends. No conception of the pain of abandonment. A boy filled with the hopes of a 7 year old. A boy eating cereal with the unconscious assumption that his mother would be there in that very kitchen, watching him eat breakfast before his last day of high school. No sense of temporality. No sense of time. There was no rush to cram anything into these moments. Moments thought to be trivial and everyday that would turn out to be “last” moments. Those moments we don’t anticipate being the last, but are.
What I see next. Gathered from pieces of conversation with my grandmother and Matt scare me, haunt me and sadden me even though they only exist in my imagination. I see them walking out the door, Mom in her work clothes, Matt wearing his not so warm Yankees jacket, insisting “its not that cold mom.” She acknowledges him only with a smile that says, I love you even when you’re stubborn. As they wait for the bus they chatter, Matt with his friends, Mom with the neighbors. In every ones actions, words thoughts today is a day just like any other. How do we look back on those moments? How do we reflect? If only they had all known what was to come, would things have been different? Would they have savored the morning conversation? Savored last good byes?
All I see at that bus stop now is a little boy who has no idea the world that awaits him. I picture his smile, carefree and innocent. His funny laugh, his smirk, the ease with which he interacts with people. If only I could save him from this moment. As I play it back in my head I see it all happening but with that horrible feeling that I know the outcome. In my head I want to go back and tell him, hold on to that hug Matthew, get every ounce of goodbye from her for this is it, after this moment your life will never be the same. But it is like one of those horrible dreams where you try to speak but somehow you have lost all ability to make sound. So it goes, I play it over and over in my head. I envision the bus pulling up, the good bye hug she gives him.
From my conversations with Matt I do know what happened next. As he got on the bus she gave him a kiss goodbye, and told him they would go bowling that night. I can picture it now, the smile on his face at the prospect of a fun Friday night bowling with his mom, and the smile on her face, the joy she felt when ever he felt so happy. And that was it. Those last few seconds of normality for everyone. Its hard to picture this all because it seems like a dream, as I re create the scene over and over in my head I want to make it stop, change the outcome, or do something but instead it plays on.
In my head I see the bus pull away. Mom, taking a long deep gasp of the cold December air rushes to her car in order to make it to work on time. No time to wait, no time to ponder, just as quick as the bus moves out of view she is into the care and off to work. It is at this very moment that I want the world to halt. I want that little boy filled with the anticipation of Friday night bowling to return home to the warm arms of his mom. I want my mom filled with anxiety to simply be able to make it to work on time, and return home to do what she does best, deliver happiness to the lives of others. But just like a bad dream, I have no control over this scene. The bus pulls away, Matt gives one last wave and smile, Mom beams back blows him a kiss and that is it. At that very moment little did anyone know what was to come.
In a rush Mom hastily pulls out of the driveway, and on this cold December morning heads off to work. When I think this scene over I wonder what was she thinking? In those three short miles from the house to the scene of the accident what was going through her head. In my head I see the car moving, but I also see the last seconds of her life ticking away. I guess this is the problem with memory. Mom had no idea what awaited around that bend, though in my head I see her approaching that turn and want to intervene, save her, save us all. But time moves on. I like to think that in her last moments, as she was rushing to work, she was filled with thoughts of happiness and not worry. Knowing my Mom she was already plotting the day. Her mind raced always at speeds that most would find hard to comprehend. She was probably planning her first meeting, lunch, when she would get Matt, what she would cook for dinner, when they would go bowling. I wonder what was her last thought? As the car slid over that center median, and the van fast approached did she have time to think one last happy thought? Did all her worry disappear? Did she know this was it? Those moments somehow replay in my head more often then I would like. Those last few moments of life, somewhere in between 908 and 909 am on that morning she was here with us, rushing to work, going about the everyday, and then just like that she was not.
What is most odd to me is that although it was at 9:09 am that my Mom passed we all went about our daily lives. Matt was off to school anticipating his run Friday evening, Michelle was off to class, my alarm would be going off in 2 hours and I would be out the door to give a presentation at school. Up until some one realized Mom was not where she was suppose to be we were all living. All living with the assumption that our lives would remain the carefree, happy ones that they were at that very moment. Even while she was no longer with us, we went about the day as if she was, assuming she had made it to work, assuming today was a day just like every other. It is those moments that truly mess with my sense of time. I look back and see myself walking into class, thinking that this presentation was the most important thing of the day, nervous beyond belief. As I gave that presentation I had no idea of the phone call I would receive when I finished class and turned on my phone. We all have no idea when that moment is coming. In a way we have to live the lie that everything is normal until proven otherwise, if we did not we would go insane.
It feels odd to be writing this. At this point I must come to grips with how the story really ends. As I type these words I am forced to confront the fact that there is no going back. I will never be able to be at the bus stop urging Matthew to giver he one more hug, I will never be able to prevent her from rushing off to work, I will never be able to know her last thoughts. Instead I must relate the final moments as they occurred, not how I want them to be. This is how it happened….
Matthew returned home late that afternoon. Again, I was not there, and my imagination runs rampant but this is how I envision it. As the bus pulls up I wonder at which point he notices, something is wrong, someone is missing. Slowly the bus door opens up and instead of my Mom being there to greet him with a hug and take him bowling, he instead sees me grandmother, my aunts and his dad. As innocent as 7 year olds are I would venture to say some part of him knew something was certainly wrong. Could he tell on their faces the new they were about to deliver? Did he know that there would be no bowling and no hugs? Did he notice her car was not there? Just as I contemplate those last moments of my mother’s life, I also contemplate the last moments of my brother’s innocence. I see his each and every step as approaching that loss of innocence, and again I want to intervene to prevent his world from being crushed. I can not though. Just as I can not prevent myself from picking up that phone call, and hearing my father’s voice on the other line trembling like I have never heard it before. Just as I imagine my brother knew what had happened the moment he saw my mom was not at the bus stop, I somehow knew at the quaking of my father’s voice that I had lost my mom. He didn’t have to speak, he didn’t have to utter those words. It is akin to what Freud calls the uncanny, when you just know something, you become aware before you are told. I was aware I had lost my mom as my dad trembled out the words, “Bill, I don’t know how to tell you this…” And that is how it occurred, or at least what I remember about the morning of.
Wednesday, April 02, 2008
time keeps on slipping slipping....
into the future. name that tune. even if you don't know it you can probably hum the tune and you know those words and all too well that time, despite out best attempts, keeps on slipping into the future. somehow 2 weeks has just blown by. from letting out a huge scream of joy as i flew down the face of a great run in Whistler with some great friends, to nervously giving the best man speech at my good friends wedding. I feel like these past 2 weeks I accumulated so many experiences and smiles that it is somehow ok to be back at school, reading theory and dreaming over the next moments of escape. I also realized why the time went to quick, I was too busy living that I wasn't doing much thinking. And I need those moments, I think we all do for our mental sanity. Those "flow" moments where you are not aware of before or after but without knowing it you are simply immersed in now, with only the big grin on your face to show for it. Those moments where we are in it, living it, and sucking every last drop out of this gift of life are those moments we look back on with fondness. For some crazy reason it seems lots of us are hell bent on accumulating money. Money has become the thing that defines a person, the thing which we always want more, at the expense our our hopes, our dreams and sometimes even our morals. But what about experience? Why do we need to measure a person by the size of the bank account but the total of dollar bills accumulated? What about an experience account? What about heading out there and accumulating moments of joy, happiness and ecstasy? Instead of envying someones new ride, there new clothes or there high paying job why not ask them when was the last time you let out a scream of joy, had a laugh with old friends, had a smile on your face so big that it hurt the next day, felt stoked to be alive? Jobs and money are obviously vital to accumulating experience but money may not be the be all and end all. I guess that might be the anthropologist in me. I am curious what makes people get up every day? What makes all of the other crap worthwhile? What are those things that get people inspired? What brings a smile of excitement to peoples faces? I am curious about all of this and I want to know how people achieve it in their own unique ways. There is no one way to happiness, despite what the self help section at Borders may lead you to believe. Somehow happiness has become a business where to find out how to be happy you need to work a lot to afford to buy all the books on happiness. I think its bullshit. Now I will admit I have read these books and even enjoyed some of them. But I think that the real secret lies in our greatest resource...other people. Try it and I think you may seem that there are may ways to live a life. The next time you meet some one in the street or catch up with an old friend, ask them: When was the last time you felt really alive? What do you love to do? What makes you get out bed every day in the face of seemingly endless obstacles, confusion and work? What moments when remembered put a smile on your face? And after a few of these questions you'll see it, as the person talks about those experience suddenly something will ignite a memory and that spark, that smile will appear on their face. So head out put those dollars to work and accumulate some of those other things..experience, fun, and memories that make you laugh so hard it hurts.
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