On grief, and love, and gratitude.

On Wednesday night, I had an absolutely terrible restless night. I think that I might have had an hour of sleep, and that in that hour, my sleep was mostly plagued with terrible dreaming about not having the papers I would need Thursday morning for Dwight’s eulogy, or having a mouth filled with oatmeal-like mush and the words being unclear, and of standing in the church where my mom’s body last laid in a hideous borrowed casket, and seeing my Grandpa Don out in the audience….to put it mildly, it just was a horrible night.

But, I also know that there were lots of other people who weren’t getting good rest, people that I love so much, who I knew were going to have to get up, bleary and tired, exhausted to their marrow, and put effort to not show the ravages of grief, and to make it through the day.

It is amazing that at times, I can’t remember what my bank account number is, or where I put my other set of car keys, or what I had for lunch two days ago, but I can remember some things very distinctly. The night my mom died, I laid down in a bed after what seemed like the longest, most difficult day of my life, and I said aloud to my godmother…”I don’t think I can ever sleep again.” I can remember asking her so many questions, questions about how I would ever get to sleep. How would I ever know someone who didn’t know her? How would I survive without her? How I would ever be able to close my eyes, and not see my mom, in the tub where I had found her dead…I had more questions than my brain had answers for.

I guess that in the almost 27 years that have passed since my momma died, I have learned some things about grief. And I came to the realization in the last few days that for as much as I do know, sometimes that knowledge feels useless. I hate the darkness that comes with grief, when you know how the sadness will seep in and invade your brain and heart…but, how do you tell someone who is sitting in that darkness that it will ebb, that there will be moments of sunshine, and that sometimes the need to stay in the darkness…well, that’s okay too?

Yesterday, when I delivered a eulogy for someone who was not mine to hold or claim, but yet so important to people that I love so very much, my heart was breaking at being the person who’s words should matter. I wanted my words to touch the hearts of the people who are so broken and bereft, to assure them that I recognize them in their pain, and that I see in them the very real, very deep grief that is present in their hearts. I wanted to assure them that as the world continues to turn, and you feel so alone, that it is part of the human condition of grief.

I have asked unanswerable questions about loss in my life. I have struggled with feeling like I was somehow unworthy of being loved, I have struggled with wondering why has loss visited my doorstep too many times? But, I have also realized something else…it is only when we truly know love that we know loss and grief, for the pain of grief is so closely embedded with the joy of love.

Grief is the risk we take, the gamble that we make when we give of our love to others. We risk disappointment, and hurt, but bigger than that….we risk becoming intimately familiar with the darkness of grief. So, as I laid in bed early on Thursday, thinking about how could I lend salve to the broken heart of grief, I thought about love.

I believe in love. I believe that with love, you can change the world, that the hurts become less, that the fears become smaller, that the distances shorter…what are we without love? Am I a better person if I save my heart, and risk nothing for fear of being hurt in grief? Am I better if I refuse to open my heart to others, to love with wide open arms, to give of my love, and to feel the warmth of love from others? Am I better without grief if it means that I never love?

I know for me, it is too late. I know grief. She and I are intimately familiar. I know the broken pain of grief late at night, when there is no greater alone, and the grief that comes when you should be happiest, when you wonder if you are the only one who realizes that you are broken, and you feel as if there is nothing that can heal you. But, I am also intimate with the grief that helps to give you compassion, the grief that settles in your bones to remind you that before you lost, you loved.

It is love that I believe in, I believe that love is what makes the difficult days worth it. I believe that love is wrapped up in the arms of people we are meant to hug back, that it is present in the giggle of the child who’s eyes light up when they see us, that it is in the quiet of companionship in your oldest, best friend; it is present in the joy of those around us…love is what fulfills us, and completes us. So, in love, we must resolve ourselves to the simple fact that we will know grief.

And it will be love that will help us to survive.

I am so, so blessed to be loved, and grateful that I have loved so deeply to know grief.

The beauty in letting go.

I have to be honest…I have never really understood the idea of “letting go”. I think that I was forced too many times to “let it go”, to “let go”, and to “move on”. I can remember the first time that I consciously recall moving away from the place that I felt was my home, and I was devastated.

My parents’ decision felt like it was being forced upon me, that it wasn’t about choice, and that I was powerless. I hated it. I hated that I had no voice and that I had no say in what was to inevitably happen to my life. And, I think that feeling has always stuck with me to a point. When someone else decides that they are going to change the rules, the parameters, or the expectations…it stops being your choice but it does become your reality.

I am an emotional hoarder, I don’t throw away concert stubs, or little notes, or birthday cards…I don’t want to let go of MY emotions associated with the item, the thought, the event, the experience…so, I have difficulty with letting go of real things, like relationships.

I am so lucky. I really, really am. I have been loved so well in my life. I have been loved by my friends, I have been loved by my students, I have been loved and cared for by so many. I was loved powerfully by my momma, with no conditions, even when I least deserved her love.

But, I have also known pain in love, like we all have. Utter despair and disappointment, questions of what I could have or should have done differently, the classic where did I fail? Those are the questions that haunt me in my internal thinking…the questions that have no answer because they tend to be one sided conversations. Conversations that you can’t have with another person because they left, they walked away, or in some cases…you literally lost them to a fate much bigger than choice.

But, as I age, as I “mature”…(I use that very sparingly because just about every juvenile action having to do with DPOTD makes me crack up)…I am realizing that there are things that I have to let go of with people that I love very much.

I realize that choices and decisions made so long ago can and will have impact today. And, I realize that what I have envisioned as my “sunset” with people that I love won’t necessarily paint the same way in their lives.

I can’t love someone “enough” to stay my friend. I can’t work harder, hold on tighter, or think that somehow abandoning my own dreams and wants and wishes will make anything else okay. And, in spite of all the pain or discomfort, I will not give up what makes me the most me to please anyone.

So, it brings me back to the idea of letting go. I am busy telling my seniors on the daily right now…life is going to change no matter if you are ready…and you will be okay. I tell them that the best time of their life is ahead of them, because I sincerely believe that. I tell them that I will love and support them, that they need to remember who and what they are, and not be so afraid.

So, I better take my own advice. I am responsible for my own happiness. I am going to keep my heart open to love. I am going to insist that others’ around me take responsibility for their decisions, and not attempt to make me carry their burden. I am going to take some opportunities for silence and self care. I am going to love myself.

And, in the process…I’m going to hope to find that it is okay to just let go sometimes.

 

To see 26…

What a fitting morning, as the rain kisses the ground, and the sun hides…grief reflected in the weather. Life is so full of good, and so full of sorrow…I suppose that is how it must be, in order to remind me to not take the good for granted. And, in all reality, to not forget the sorrow, don’t dismiss loss as unimportant, for it, like good, changes us…

How lucky I am to have been loved by her, even with the grief of every day of 26 years, that love is not lessened. I miss you, my mom.

This, for her….not mine, but such a truth in the telling….

“Kathy’s Song”

I hear the drizzle of the rain
Like a memory it falls
Soft and warm continuing
Tapping on my roof and walls

And from the shelter of my mind
Through the window of my eyes
I gaze beyond the rain-drenched streets
To England, where my heart lies

My mind’s distracted and diffused
My thoughts are many miles away
They lie with you when you’re asleep
And kiss you when you start your day

And a song I was writing is left undone
I don’t know why I spend my time
Writing songs I can’t believe
With words that tear and strain to rhyme

And so you see, I have come to doubt
All that I once held as true
I stand alone without beliefs
The only truth I know is you

And as I watch the drops of rain
Weave their weary paths and die
I know that I am like the rain
There but for the grace of you go I

Some things I know about 40…

I just started a new semester at school, and with a new semester, came about 110 new students, thank goodness for those 15 or so students that I am lucky to have from first semester…because, I have new names and faces to learn, new riddles to decipher, new challenges, and new chances to make an impact. I start my new classes by telling them that they are important to me, and that I want them to know that I am a real person, with a real life, and real feelings. I then share with them my list of “40 or so” things that I want them to know about me. The list is silly, and serious…true and telling, but gives them just enough to peak their curiosity, and to keep them paying attention. I then ask them to share as many things as they are old with me, that they want me to know about them. I tell them that it can be personal or superficial, but that I really am curious. I have learned some pretty important, and some pretty inane things, but I love the peek inside of their brains.

As they were busy working on their lists, one of my new students asked me, “Ms. Collins, why did you share so many things?”, and we had the conversation where she gasped when I told her I was 40, and I laughed, and basked a bit in the fact that they didn’t believe me. We talked about why I would or wouldn’t lie about my age, but I wondered what they think 40 looks like? I also told them that you have to live for awhile to know all the stuff I know. While I was talking to her table, this student asked me, tell me one thing you know now that you didn’t know when you were my age…and, of course that didn’t stump me. But, it did get me to thinking. So, here are some things that I know now, at 40, that I didn’t know at 17…

1. At 40, my body finally feels like mine. I am comfortable in my body. I know it’s scars, it’s eyes, it’s freckles, what hurts, and what feels good. And, in this body, I finally feel home. I finally have gratitude for the acceptance of this body, with breasts that aren’t perfect, and a crooked nose, and the scar from falling into a coffee table…it’s all me.

2. At 40, I know that Santa is real. I know, I know…not the red suited, fat belly Santa…the Santa that I get to be to others, and that I get to see in action, even when it’s not Christmas. It’s about giving and being generous, helping someone else in big and little ways.

3. At 40, I appreciate honesty from my friends, even when it’s hard. Sometimes, you just need that friend who will say, that shit’s crazy…I appreciate their honesty, and do my best to give that right back.

4. At 40, I know what resilience really is, and I am. I have lived long enough to know what is going to hurt, what’s going to take some time to heal, and what wrongs you can say, I let that go today, I won’t carry you forward.

5. At 40, I know what real loss looks like, and it helps me to be more resilient. I have lived long enough to have too much death, disease, divorce, loss, goodbyes, earth shattering changes to know when a loss is a loss, and when it’s just part of the moving of time and space, and how to manage both.
Sometimes, that is in just being grateful that time will march on…

6. At 40, I know that statistics are more than numbers. I have lived enough life to know that rape, cancer, addiction, disease, unemployment…those are all real things, and not just numbers that get assigned to other people. These are things that happen to people that I know and love, and sometimes it is looking back in the mirror. The numbers can be staggering, but we have to remember to breathe, to get up, to show up, to keep fighting.

7. At 40, I know who my friends are, the real friends that know where my porn is, what to do with that box full of ridiculous mementos that I have been saving for over 30 years, who know that my ugly cry looks like, and who know more than anyone the most beautiful and ugly parts of me. I am so grateful for those friends.

8. At 40, I know how to ask for directions, and still get lost. I know when I need help, and when I can go it alone. I know that there is beauty in both, and yes, I am speaking both literally and figuratively. By the age of 40, it is that unknown adventure that is no longer so scary, but so much more exciting.

9. At 40, I know to believe in change. I know that it is more than just a process of growing old, change is taking all the lessons that I have learned, and applying. Change is about being willing to risk, being willing to take steps that are risky, to not always keep your head down, to speak with a voice that won’t be silenced. I am so grateful that I have lived long enough to see some changes, both big and small…change is important.

10. And finally, at 40, I know what gratitude looks like. I know what it means to hold someone in your arms and heart, and not want to let them go because you just can’t tell them with words how damn grateful that you are that they are in your life. I know what it means to be so grateful to fall into bed at the end of a long day, and know that you are safe, fed, warm and loved. I know what it means to be grateful for what I have, and for what I don’t have in some cases.

I am so thankful to have lived long enough to know some important stuff…I can’t wait to keep learning, because, I also know at 40, that I don’t know it all yet, and maybe I won’t ever.

The Little Girl that lived…and has my gratitude.

In the last few days, the news has been saturated with stories of the 7 year old girl that survived a plane crash in northwestern Kentucky, with all kinds of talk and speculation on what will happen to her, what’s next for her, what she must be thinking or feeling, how tough she is, how amazing it is that she survived and walked for help, that she is the little girl that lived….and I have thought several of those same things, but very much through the lens of my mother’s eyes. My momma was a little girl that lived too.

I don’t remember how old I was when I first heard of the plane crash that my mother survived when she was not quite 5 years old. I do know that I wasn’t old enough to really understand the brevity of the situation, but that I was in awe of the fact that my mom had walked away from the crash that killed her parents, Dick and Barbie. Over time, I learned the details, or most of them; that my grandfather who had piloted a plane in World War II, became a traveling salesmen for a steel company out of Denver, CO. And that his travels included flying himself all over the northwest in a Cessna plane. And, that on December 31, New Year’s Eve of 1953, my grandfather, his bride, and their beautiful daughter, Sherry were headed into the Harlowton airstrip on flight from their home in Boulder, Colorado to spend a few days with the Smart family, gathered at the ranch. I learned that on the approach to the Harlowton airstrip, whether by error or misjudgment, that plane crashed into the back side of a hill, and killed my mother’s parents. And, then the story goes that the little curly haired, fair skinned girl crawled out of the wreckage and walked towards the lights of Harlowton. On her walk, she encountered the highway, which wasn’t particularly busy, but a local couple found her walking, picked her up, asked what she was doing, and got the story that would become a bit of a legend in the next few days, weeks and months…spreading as far as the New York Times, and making the front page of the Denver Post, that the plane had crashed, and the only survivor was a “brave” little girl, who would grow up to be my momma.

I have always thought that this story was something of a mystery, that the mythical story of the girl who lived was in ways too unbelievable. But, the reality that it presented for my momma was so true. She was raised by someone who loved her so, who became her dad, but took her in when she had no parents. She remembered the loss of her parents, it was difficult and challenging. It changed her. She was scared to fly for much of her life, she hated New Year’s Eve, and she had a deep space in her that couldn’t be filled with other things, that space that was always reserved for the love of a momma. But, it is that mystery, and that myth that drove my mom in so many ways. She was a survivor. She was the girl who lived.

And, as I read about that sweet little 7 year old girl, and see her family and her community pictured on the news, I think to myself…just hold on…it is going to be hard, it is going to be tough, but someday, you will be someone’s momma, and you will tell them the story of the time that you lived, and remind them to be so grateful that you did. I know that I am so grateful that my mom survived the unbelievable, and in that, gave me a life to be so grateful for.