Unpronounceable

Now I spend
My days and nights
Looking at
A depression on the sofa
And over time it flattens out
But I am still depressed

Your name it is unpronounceable
Distorted and illegible
I never figured out what that was
If I couldn’t then I know I never will


-They Might Be Giants

Where that place used to be...

Although I’m no longer religious (at all; I’m an atheist now) a place that I will always hold dear to me is Kansas Christian Church, in Kansas, Illinois. I tell people that I was raised in that church, and it’s true; I spent many hours in that beautiful building, not only learning about the Bible but forming bonds with a community in a way I have since found very difficult in any other setting.

I started attending that church in 1983 when, at the age of 8, my mother, sisters and I moved from Virginia to Illinois to live with our grandmother. Our mother was dying, our dad was in no condition to take care of us, and that was what was decided. My grandfather had been the preacher there in the ‘60s; he died suddenly in 1970 but my grandmother stayed on and continued to live and worship there.

When I was young, my favorite church experience was a Wednesday after-school group called J.A.M. (Jesus and me) where we’d have games, snacks, and lessons that were fun. As I grew older, there were more serious times; Sunday school and small groups and Bible studies for teenagers wanting to get more serious about their faith. I also spent many Sundays volunteering in the nursery, helping take care of little ones so their parents could attend services. Sunday nights were middle and high school youth group, where I had not only a great group of friends, but also a youth pastor who was funny, talented, and more generous with his time and love than I even appreciated at the time.

The building itself was full of memories for me – not just the usual Sunday worship, but all the other events: potluck dinners in the basement, revivals, funerals, weddings – including my own first wedding. I can recall so many individual moments in that place, and in the tapestry of my adolescence, it features prominently.

A few years ago, the church burned nearly to the ground. The morning after it began, I was getting updates on Facebook throughout the day. I wept that day – a lot. Although it was no longer a place of belief for me, it was still a monument to how and where I grew up. And it was, within a matter of hours, gone. The beautiful stained glass windows - shattered. The sturdy brick I thought would last forever – crumbled. The plaque commemorating my grandfather’s service there – melted into oblivion.

I was back home recently and walked through the newly built church for the very first time since the old one was destroyed. I knew it would feel strange but I wasn’t prepared for the rush of emotion that swept through me as my sister walked me through and showed me the gorgeous new building. Tears sprang to my eyes as I kept thinking, “This isn’t it.” I always said, when I was a believer, that it wasn’t the building that was the church; it was the people. And while that is still true, those bricks and windows and beautiful wooden pews and brass fittings meant something to me. And they are gone, for good – just like my faith was, long before the structure ceased to be.

In a way I am glad I live so far from home; I’m sure being there would make it difficult to be honest about who I am now; a non-believer. And it would be sad for me to be in that new church building from time to time as I know I would have to be, realizing I was standing in the same spot but in a completely different place. And so I will keep my memories and live in my present, grateful that I can keep them separate most of the time.

The church on my wedding day in 1995...

Me at the piano - about age 16 or 17

The night of the fire

The aftermath

Friendship: A Precious Collection

When I was younger, I felt the same way a lot of "not popular" girls felt: guys made better friends than girls. I don't know why - I had some really good girlfriends in high school, so it's not like I didn't know how to form, navigate, and enjoy those female friendships. But there was something about guys - like I could tell them anything. As I look back now I think maybe they were interested in being more than friends with me, and maybe that was why it was so easy for me. It probably was not for them.

At any rate, now that I am 40, I have done a lot of thinking about my female friendships. There is something about those relationships that is almost ethereal in nature; I am not sure how well I can put it into words, but I'm certainly going to try.

Relationships change - all of them do. Some of them survive the changes; some do not. Some are bound by geography or even just a sense of proximity, but some last long after the physical and metaphysical connections are frayed or even severed. In fact, ten years ago, I don't think I'd have believed I'd have a friend for 10 years or more. I thought I'd learned the nature of friendships was that they come and go, and to just enjoy them while they lasted.

But my very best friend in the world - we've been friends about that long, and I don't expect it to end, not ever, not even when one of us dies. And it has not always been smooth sailing. There was a time I thought our friendship was ruptured for good - when I married my soon-to-be ex-husband. She knew he was not good for me, and was unwilling to support me in the marriage. Clearly, I did it anyway. And she made her peace with it but never with him. And she turned out to be right, and never once has said, "I told you so." Instead, she held me in her heart through my tears.

She is my go-to girl, and I am hers. We understand one another in a way that probably no one else in this world does - no family members, no spouses, no other friends. We find each other in times of trouble, knowing whatever we've said or done, there will be no judgment, just acceptance. We'll seek one another's counsel on matters that we dare not share with anyone else. We find laughter in terrible moments, and cry with each other over everything - happy, sad, frustrating, angry, celebratory.

She is a bottomless pit of "interesting" - I will never stop being fascinated by her. It's a good quality to have in a friend.  She has the most open heart of anyone I know and I always wish that I could be like her in that way. And, sure, she gets hurt, but it doesn't stop her. It's one of the things I admire most about her.

This woman and I  - we have weathered so many storms together. Bad marriages, sick children, wayward children, personal health crises, financial difficulties, problems with other friends. We've gotten frustrated with each other and sometimes even mad at each other. But we always, always loved each other.

The kind of unconditional love that she has shown me, I don't know if I've ever quite received from anyone not related to me. I hope that I do that for her - I certainly try to. Neither of us is perfect (and honestly, we don't try all that hard to be because we both find it boring), and we accept one another with all our flaws and chinks in the armor and liver spots and scars.

I feel the need to add this: we do not live anywhere close to each other, so our friendship is not based on geography (although you could say it is somewhat based on the metaphysical proximity...we hang around the same places online!). In fact, we met online first, and it was several years before we met in person. She is in Kentucky; I am in New Mexico. But phones and the Internet keep us close in those many moments we cannot be physically near each other.

And, she's not my only friend. She's my very BEST friend, to be sure, but I'm blessed to know a lot of women who know me, love me, and want to spend time with me. There is a beauty in a collection of women being women together, dwelling in our gender and our shared and common life experiences, laughing and talking and enjoying friendship with others who understand.

I still have guy friends - of course I do; they are indeed capable of deep and meaningful relationships that don't involve sex. And they are dear to me. But my, what my girls do for me. They are my sisters, mothers, daughters, cousins, and everything in between, fulfilling me in ways that bring out my gratitude for a full and amazing life. They are, quite simply, precious.

Be brave, survivor.

Some days, it is harder to follow that advice than others. And yet, tonight on a drive through a dark, rainy night with slick shiny streets to an urgent care with a split-lipped son, I saw those two words. One car had a license plate "BEBRAVE" and another had "SURVIVR." How could I not turn that over in my mind a time or two?

Being brave, and counting on my history as a survivor, should come easily. In a way, it does. It's my practical Midwestern upbringing saying, "Girl, just get on with it."

But today, I see losses on the horizon stacking up. Fears that may or may not come true, but the hints of them have me in quite a state. And it's not that I think any of it will break me; no, I am wiser than that. But it feels like they will all hit at once, and I won't know how to cope or what to do. Just when I felt like maybe my life was coming together again - BAM! Another hit.

I need to get better at discarding the things that don't matter. No matter how much I want some things, they have proven to not be good for me. In the back of my mind, I think, "But it could get better! What if you were supposed to say yes this time? What if you miss something?" And I know it's faulty thinking - yes, anything COULD happen, but not everything is likely to. And if I could learn to do that, it would certainly ease some of the anxiety about events swirling around me.

And so...tonight I will gather my thoughts and my fears and my few stray tears, and I will read a book and kiss my boys and close my eyes and find the courage to survive another day.

Mistaken

Not being able to replace someone 

is not the same thing as missing her.

Windows of time

Tell me your story
And I'll tell you mine
I love what we do
In these windows of time.

I want to hear
Of your whole lovely life
The good, bad, and boring
And even your wife

I'll open to you
The things that you seek
I'll show my world
With no need for mystique

But don't be afraid
If some tears do sneak out
I feel it all deeply -
That's what life's about

So tell me your story
And I'll tell you mine
Take my hand and my heart
In these windows of time.

Not Little Women

There are 4 of us girls, babies our mother had, each from a different father. We don't look alike. We probably sound a little alike. But it seems we are each almost more like our fathers than our mother, in appearance anyway. I'm as white as they come; my two middle sisters are half Mexican, and the oldest is white like me. I'm tall; the oldest is very short, and the middle two are average height.

When we were little girls, we naturally spent a lot of time together. We were all girly girls. Christmas in our house was like Mattel threw up  - Barbies and Barbie paraphernalia everywhere. On holidays our mother would attempt to dress us somewhat alike. Our babysitter made us each a Holly Hobby doll, each according to our size. We each had a first holy communion in the Catholic church, complete with white dresses, tights, and veil.

When we fought, it was nearly always the middle two against my oldest sister and me. I don't know if it was because the middle two look alike and we didn't, or what. I didn't even realize my dad wasn't their dad until my parents split up. It just never occurred to me, even though they were brown. Their "real" dads were not a part of our lives, and I, an innocent kid never imagined they might have another father somewhere.

My sisters have always been a huge part of my life. From making me an auntie for the first time at age 13, to telling me about periods and boys, to sharing motherhood with me, they have been there. Of course with 4 girls there will be fights and drama; even with all of us in our 40s, that still happens. But beneath it all is love. You don't fight with people you don't love; it isn't worth the effort. At least, not for me.

We've all suffered our various trials, starting with losing our mother when I, the youngest, was 8 years old. And as we grew up, the tribulations added up. Mental illness, financial problems, abusive men, sick children. We've been through it. And yet, the four of us - we smile and shine. We laugh and drink and play. We tell the world, "Fuck it; I got this."

But make no mistake: we weep, we fall, we crumble, we melt. But the substance running through us, whatever that thing is that makes us wake up, take another step, another risk, another try -  there seems to be a lot of it. Because through our darkest fears, our scariest realities, our driest seasons - we keep going, loving, doing, being.

I love these women more than I ever knew when I was younger. They were my first best friends, my worst enemies, my tormenters and my protectors. They can take me down, bring up, sit beside me and hold me in a way no one else in this world can.

They are

My

Sisters.

A Brief Interruption

I won’t go back
To that place
Where I thought, hoped
That you might be
Him
I can’t erase
The things you said
Critique without
Compliment
Judgment without
Understanding
You only care
About You
You are the center
of Everything
Everyone
And when you’re not
the world is wrong
You fuck
and then judge
And let no one
Truly close
You delight in being vague
Your communication currency is
   Grey
       Or Twilight
          - Neither clear nor good nor bad, just
Undecipherable
So I ask questions
I open my heart
And you crush it.
Or at least…try.
But I know this:
I am better than that
I deserve more
I demand it
And someone luckier than you
More open than you
More loving than you
Will have the prize that is me.

I just don't know

A song I have been listening to over and over again lately (so much so that I spent an hour trying to pick it out on my piano and finally got some of it) is called Jericho, another song by Mary Chapin Carpenter. It is hauntingly beautiful, with nothing but a piano accompaniment. But the words, as usual, are what gets me...and especially the very last line:

"For if love is a labyrinth, then my heart is Jericho."

That has never been me. But given my circumstances lately, I wonder if it is. But maybe I need a little bit of Jericho to protect me in the labyrinth.

The problem is I don't want protection. I want the twists and turns and dead ends and peril that makes the glorious prize at the end worth it. And I want someone who feels the same.

Grief

I don't know what got me to thinking about grief the other night. For a long time, it was just so much a part of who I was, that I didn't think to name it: grief was life. Life was grief. And then...then the rest of my life happened. And it really wasn't too bad: lots of additions, fewer subtractions.

I learned grief at such a young age: when I was 8, I learned my father had done some Very Bad Things. As a daddy's girl, it was devastating. And yet, I loved him. And this revelation came in the midst of my mother fighting breast cancer, which she ultimately lost. They split a few months before she died. A defining moment in my childhood, indeed.

Then when I married for the first time, I was lucky to have an amazing mother-in-law. I was ecstatic. I was sure that was my 2nd chance at having a mother. And not long after my wedding, she fell ill as well. Just over a year after my wedding, and 3 weeks after the birth of my first child, we lost her too. I was devastated. It was a good year before I didn't often spontaneously burst into tears, missing her.

And then...then a long time passed, with no serious losses. A divorce, yes, a loss. And grief. But not the grief that comes with  death.

And then my father died. To say our relationship was complicated is probably an understatement. But the things that happened when I was a child had dimmed in my memory; he was a wonderful grandfather and a good dad to an adult daughter. I couldn't have asked for more: generous, fun, kind, and had chosen a lovely partner who I am closer to than ever before. And then he left - far too soon. He was supposed to see his grandchildren grow up, and know his great-grandchildren. But he can't.

He.

Is.

Gone.

I was not prepared for how much I would miss him - for how his death would bereave me. Though his death was sudden, it shouldn't have been completely unexpected: he'd been ill off and on with various ailments. And during those times of serious illness, I thought in a way, I might be relieved if he died. But I have not, not for one minute since he passed away, felt relieved. All I feel is loss and grief, and the sense that he was not finished. WE were not finished. But we are, and I can't change that. I cannot put him back together, and hug him and talk to him and hear him shout "Jessie!" the way that only he could.

One thing I have learned is that grief will not wither on the vine. You can ignore it, you can pretend it doesn't exist, you can move on in smiles and jokes and trips to the grocery store and episodes of your favorite TV show. But grief will always find you.

It found me in the grocery aisle when  a Lynyrd Skynyrd song came on. It found me late at night when I found a selfie he'd left on the computer I inherited from him. It found me in a photo of him as a young man. It found me in the moments of my sons' lives when all I could think was, "I wish he was here." Grief finds you; do not be fooled that you can trick it into never unlocking your front door just because you've gotten on with your life.

A song I listened to over and over again shortly after losing my dad is called "Learning the World," by one of my favorite songwriters, Mary Chapin Carpenter. Mary gets it in a way that I wish more people would:

Grief rides quietly on the passenger side
Unwanted company on a long, long drive
It turns down the quiet songs and turns up the din
It goes where you go, it’s been where you’ve been

And pushing your empty cart mile after mile
Leaves you weeping in the wilderness
Of the supermarket aisle
And in the late night kitchen light it sits in a chair
Watching you pretend that it’s not really there

But it is, so it is and you ask
Are you predator or friend
The future or the past?

It hands you your overcoat and opens the door
You are learning the world again just as before
But the first time was childhood
And now you are grown
Broken wide open, cut to the bone

And all that you used to know is of no use at all
The same eyes you’ve always had have you walking into walls
And the same heart can’t understand
Why it’s so hard to feel
What used to be true
What’s now so unreal

But it is, so it is and you say
I wish I were the wind so that I could blow away

Grief sits silently on the edge of your bed
It’s closing your eyes, it’s stroking your head
The dear old companion is taking up air
Watching you pretend that it’s not really there.