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Love is a verb (repost)
As I was walking down the street the other day, I noticed the following sentence written on the sidewalk in big white block letters:
LOVE IS A VERB.
That made me smile and think yes, yes it is.
Yes, it is also a noun: deep affection. But, for that phrase to actually have more substance than the breath you expel upon saying I love you, there must be actions to give it weight. To give it meaning. Love cannot live in words alone if they are not to fade away to nothingness, or worse, twist and rot in the absence of actions or in the face of actions that put lie to the words.
What those actions might be, that demonstrate that love, are myriad and multitudinous...and quite personal to each individual.
For me, it is bear hugs. It's the words said every day, multiple times a day. It is standing on the porch waving as a loved one drives away. It's baking someone's favorite dessert, preparing homecooked meals. It's listening, accepting those you love as they are while encouraging them, supporting them to be their best selves. It's compromising. It's remembering things that are important to your loved one. Doing things for and with your loved one.
Sometimes it's sacrificing - time, energy, money, sleep for your loved one.
Nurtured, it will grow and strengthen. Blossom. Evolve.
Limited to words belied by actions - or inaction, it ceases to be love.
Memory Awake (or The girl who fell out of heaven): Part 2
“Why are you crying, Lily?”
I dabbed at my eyes, whispering, “The music.”
“You like this stuff? Give me Green Day any day, every day, twice on Sunday.”
I smiled, as the mini concert continued. Every Sunday, we were fortunate to have a classical music concert in the activity room for the hour after lunch, before visiting hours began. I never missed one. Today we listened to the works of Saint-Saens. The last notes of The Swan were played and mine were the loudest applause. I turned to Ellie.
“Music, this music, fills me so that I feel as if I might burst with beauty and longing. I feel every note here,” I touched my chest. “It’s as if each note reaches inside and finds some piece of itself, as if I am the music and the music is me.”
“That makes no sense. No wonder you’re in here.”
I rolled my eyes, “I’m in good company with you.”
“I don’t know; I’ll stay on my meds, level out, go home. You’ll still be here thinking you used to be stardust.”
“Given our chemical make-up, I’d say there’s a bit of stardust in all of us.” I paused. “I just remember when that was all I was.”
“Like I said…”
“Stop picking on her, Ellie. You’re just jealous. You wish you had something so magical to remember.”
“And that’s my cue. Later, Lily,” Ellie said as she strolled out of the room. She always went back to her room after the concerts. No one had come to visit her since she’d arrived some ten weeks ago.
No one visited me either, but my parents had divorced and moved out of state some years ago, so it was to be expected, I guess. My mom did send care packages every now and again. In the beginning, my father called periodically, but I always refused his calls, so he finally gave up. Easier for both of us.
I like to watch the others interact with those who make the trek every week, or bi-weekly or even just once a month, to remind them that they have not been forgotten.
It hurts quite a bit to feel oneself abandoned because you need help figuring out how to fit your square into the circle hole. My heart smiles to see not all hope is lost, neither for my life-challenged comrades, nor for their loved ones.
After half an hour or so, I go back to my room and take out my iPod. I put in my earpods, lay down and put on Saint-Saens. As I close my eyes, I am transported to before when I was stardust and music and light.
I fall asleep and when I awaken, I burst into tears.
I’m still here.
Memory Awake (or, the girl who fell out of heaven)
“What was it like?”
How to express it in a way they could understand? “Sunshine without fear of burning. Peace without threat of war. Absolute and unconditional love with no possibility of hatred.”
“Okay,” Jake rolled his eyes, “but you could do anything you wanted, right?”
I sighed. “There was no want. No desire. No need. No id or ego at all: Just being.”
Groans all around. “Sounds boring. My heaven has all the pie I could ever eat. And lots of mind-blowing sex with no STDs or unplanned pregnancies or broken hearts or misunderstandings.”
“Forever?”
“Oh yeah.”
I shook my head. “There’s a book, The Incredible Lightness of Being. When I first saw it, I thought I had found a kindred spirit. I was mistaken. But the title encapsulates what I remember from before: lightness. Lightness as opposed to darkness, lightness as opposed to weight, density, depth, pressure, force. Indeed, an existence quite the opposite of this…this…” I pointed to my head, “being weighed down, by this mind, this body, this world with its moon and sun and a night sky full of lights, stars, that have long since ceased to burn and a universe full of mysteries we of this world are too small to comprehend but of which I was once an infinitesimal part.” I smiled at the group. “In sum, an incredible, unfathomable, lightness of being.”
There were a few good-natured boos and hissing. We were in the tv room, but no one was watching tv. They were all sitting around me. I was the entertainment of the moment in this world of the psychologically damaged, safely removed from the world of the more sane. (I am loathe to call what lies beyond these walls sanity.) In here, not unlike some out there, we have those who hear voices that tell them to do questionable things, those with patterned scars, those who think themselves Queen Elizabeth or Jesus or God. And then there’s me. The girl who fell out of heaven – as they like to call me.
I was just like anyone else until I hit puberty. Then, for some reason, I gained the ability to remember before. My mistake was in descending into the depths of despair finding myself here and now, and then sharing why I was depressed with others.
I have lived within these walls ever since.
Would that the memories awakened in my pubescent brain were the result of some chemical imbalance treatable by pharmaceuticals and therapy. I would gladly recant my confession of prior existence and tuck it all away as a psychotic break brought on by a hormonal imbalance, parental separation, and/or abuse at the hands of a dear relative.
But, alas, it isn’t, and I cannot.
Once, I was a part of the infinite vastness of the universe. I suspect each of us was. There was no I or meor you or us or them. There was simply being. But then I was thrust into this world of finite existence. I became I and discovered a world of others, different yet the same. Equally finite, entombed as we are in sacks of flesh and blood, desperately seeking meaning, ignorant of before and always longing for some imaginary, glorious after.
And in my position of knowing, I still must wonder, will my after resemble my memories of before? Or will I remember being “I”? Will remembering this I mean an eternity of hell as I am once again a part of everything and therefore nothing yet aching with a memory of self?
Or will I be granted the bliss of oblivion? Ashes to ashes, dust to dust…
Everyone I have known in this world envisions a heaven filled with pleasures of the flesh or being reunited with those they once loved (what if they loved someone else?) or meeting the Creator.
They imagine hell to be the absence of those things. Or fiery pits of damnation.
Or, perhaps, simply, being forgotten. As if one never existed. As most everyone who has lived in this world has been or will be. I have every reason to believe that the after will be a return to that state of being I remember from before. Beautiful, if one has never lived in this world.
It is a curse, this remembering.
My question is, will I be damned to remember this world for all eternity? Forever weighted by the memory of this I, no longer at one with all that is and ever will be; or will I be allowed to drift into infinite oblivion, once again a part of that incredible lightness of being?
“All right, y’all. Party’s over. Line up,” said the nighttime aide pushing the cart of meds.
I will stop writing now. The pills will do their work for a little while, and I will sleep without dreams and forget. Until tomorrow when memory awakens once again.
“For restful death I cry”
When you said
I think about death all the time
my heart shattered
as someone who has lived with death
invited him over even
once or twice
the sentiment was nothing new
we’re old friends, he and I,
buddies;
but you,
You
who have always loved life
who never entertained thoughts
of mortality
never wanted the trip to end
who found joy in each phase
life threw your way
for you, for me, this was devastating
a normal stage of progression,
perhaps,
but one I’d hoped you’d never meet.
Kenin
There are good people.
My husband has Parkinson's. Every day of the week, regardless of the weather (excluding blizzards and hurricanes), he walks 5K. I walk with him on weekends but only when the temperature is below 55. I love our walks; the nature around us is beautiful. But for exercise? I prefer to be out of the heat and humidity.
He prefers the outdoors. He walks every day because exercise is the only thing all the Parkinson's neurologists agree slows the progression.
Slows. It is still progressing.
When we walk, we hold hands. Not only has that always been our normal, now it keeps the tremor in his right hand from affecting his walk. When he walks alone, he bounces a lacrosse ball. It helps with dexterity and distracts the tremor as well.
He is well-known in our town. People wave at him from their cars, sometimes stopping to say how inspiring he is. He has been hugged by strangers who see him in other locations and recognize him, "you're the guy with the ball!" More than one person has used him as an example to a child as someone with discipline and drive.
This morning, he was walking with his ball and it hit a rock, careening into a hole about four feet deep. The hole is covered by a board, but, obviously, there's enough space for a ball to fall through. Cars zipping by, he lay on the ground and stuck his arm through the hole. He couldn't reach it. I suspect at this point his tremor was a bit uncontrollable as well (he walks before he takes his medication because the side effect is his right leg twists inward making walking very uncomfortable). He gave up and continued walking home, sans ball.
Maybe three minutes later, the time it took to walk from one side of the high school to the other, a pick up truck pulled over and parked. A nicely dressed, clean cut man (my husband's description) got out and started walking toward my him.
Ball in hand.
Apparently, he's a cop in our town and sees my husband often; one of the many who waves back - my husband always waves when the police drive by. He saw what happened.
"How did you get it?" my husband asked.
"I moved the board and jumped in the hole."
Nice clothes and all.
My husband thanked him repeatedly and has told me I must remember his name: Kenin.
He was so moved as he told me the story. He kept sipping his water to calm himself. I was crying as soon as the pick up truck parked and the guy got out, figuring what was coming although I assumed he was gifting him a ball, not that he'd climbed in a hole to get my husband's.
For every person who makes me angry and sad because they are impatient and unkind with my husband, I must remember there are good people around, too.
Growing dependence
“No.”
“I’m sorry, honey, but it will make life so much easier for both of us.”
“I already feel like you’ve become more mother than spouse with this sickness. Now this? I’m an adult, not a baby.”
“I know. It’s not a big deal.”
“Then you wear them!”
“I’m sure I will someday, especially if it keeps me from having to get up in the middle of the night, remove the bed linen, load the washing machine, remake the bed, change my pajamas and then try to go back to sleep.”
“Fine. I’ll get Dependence.”
“Depends.”
“Depends on what?”
“Nevermind.”
A walk in the woods (repost)
I listen to the silence that echoes
I hear a leaf rustle in the wind
walking a path I know not where it goes.
On silent wings a bird flies quick then slows
red feathers to the sky ascend
I listen to the silence that echoes.
Green-leafed branches entwine to form windows
brief glimpses of blue that does not end
Walking a path I know not where it goes.
Around me everywhere I see shadows
Fauna who with the dark will to blend
I listen to the silence that echoes.
Of nature’s beauty poems I compose
Wishing I could share them with a friend
Walking a path I know not where it goes.
I find brief respite from the constant throes
of suffering life towards me does send
I listen to the silence that echoes
Walking a path I know not where it goes.
Daddy being a dad
There are dozens of pictures on shelves, bureaus, night tables and hanging on walls around my house. A few of them are pictures of my dad. Since he died before my son was born (two days prior—31 years ago), I’ve always tried to make sure he was a presence even in his absence. I’ve told my son many stories of the grandfather he never knew, pointing out characteristics they have in common (musically talented, a people person), as well as all the experiences my dad couldn’t wait to share with him (especially, fishing).
One of the funniest memories I have of my dad is from my 16th birthday. I had a recital that day and during my pas de deux, when my partner lifted me above his head, my father screamed, “Don’t you drop my baby.” I imagine I was embarrassed although I don’t remember anything except hearing his voice, people laughing in response, and hoping the young man took heed of the warning.
I don’t’ suspect he meant to be funny, but if he did, that’s another characteristic they share: humor. My son loves to make people laugh.
Get mad, Max
"I'm so pissed I want to break something," Ralph said.
"Let it go, Ralphie," Max replied.
"Let it go? How can you act like it doesn't matter? She's your girlfriend, not mine, and I saw red."
"You always see red, Ralphie. There's probably a simple explanation."
"Yeah, real simple. Jake had his tongue down Maddie's throat. The end."
"Maybe we left before we could see her push him away..."
"C’mon Max."
"Getting mad isn't gonna help anything, Ralphie. With my dad, I know that better than anyone."
"Yeah, well, I think it'd do you some good to get mad, Max."
Reasons to keep living*
Babies laughing
puppies leaping
sun rising
rays shimmering
on waves rolling
breezes blowing
colorful leaves fluttering
rain falling
puddle jumping
cold-day cuddling
hand holding
arm-in-arm walking
silly dancing
dumb joke telling
belly laughing
cooking, baking
meal making
sports watching
card playing
porch sitting
bird watching
garden growing
snowman building
poem writing
story typing
oil painting
music tickling
my ears listening
your fingers strumming
lips smiling
hearts beating
spoon sleeping.