Patience has never been a virtue of mine. I have always found it difficult to live in the moment and enjoy spending life planning what's next. I have trouble staying focused on one thing and tend to multitask – often in front of multiple screens. For instance right now, I'm booking air travel, texting about yoga class, responding to email, drinking coffee, people watching, writing this, oh, and mourning intensely. You struggled with ADD as a student and continued to as an adult, but despite your diagnosis of lack of focus, I never met a man who was more patient.
When I spent my days with you, I woke up cheerful. I was excited about life.
Now, I wake up anxious. I wake up sad. I feel like a Peanut's cartoon character who walks around with a raincloud over her head all day. I see something out of place and get upset with whoever put it there. My father has been staying with Kevin and I in the house since you died. He's been giving me space and acting with nothing but love, but I am reactive and snappy towards him. I feel like I'm experiencing my worst case of PMS every day, all day. I can hardly stand to be around myself.
I think of the woman I was with you – the joyful woman who always had a positive outlook. That woman would not want to be around this woman. She might pity this woman. I want to be the me I was with you.
A few days ago, someone told me, "Sami, you are grace". The comment stopped me in my tracks. When I was a ten-year-old ballet dancer, my Mademoiselle told me the opposite. She said to me, "Sami you are just not graceful and you will never be". That insult stuck with me as a child and was a defining moment for me. I remember the exact place I was standing when she said it. I remember my black leotard. I remember the scent of rosin on the wood floor. I remember my pointe shoes carelessly laced around my ankles. I decided right then, in that moment, 'Since I am not graceful, instead I will be strong'. And so, I became strong. I left the possibility of embodying grace in the past. In fact, I decided that since I was absolutely not graceful, that I would name the little girl I hoped have someday, Grace. That way, someday, I could have grace.
So when this person told me that I am grace. I was taken aback. I took inventory – where could I possibly give the impression of being graceful right now? I'm a fucking mess! Maybe I appeared graceful in my yoga practice – my own dance of devotion, with strength meeting flexibility, a moving meditation? Maybe I appeared graceful in my moments of gentle strength throughout this mess: a broken woman trying to hold it together? A woman who in her best moments, only allows one tear to fall from the corner of her eye. Maybe in my writing I can sometimes appear graceful – when I'm able to string words together in a proper sentence with only a few grammatical liberties?
I'm not graceful when I'm screaming in my car, punching the steering wheel, red-faced and puffy with buckets of tears falling from my baggy eyes. That's not grace. I'm not graceful when I'm angry – angry at death, angry at life for being fleeting, angry at people for not having altered your fate, angry at myself for failure, even at times, angry at you for leaving. That's not grace. I'm not graceful when I frigid or needy towards others. When someone puts their hand on me and my mind screams, 'Don't fucking touch me!' or maybe when it screams, 'Oh! Please keep touching me.' That's not grace. I'm not graceful when my body is so confused by its lack of touch, that I try in vain to pleasure myself and end up sobbing into a pillow. That's not grace. I'm not graceful when I drive the hairpin turns up the hill to our home and before each turn think, 'Maybe I'll just keep going straight off the cliff instead'. That's not grace. That's not strength.
But you my love, you define grace. You were grace in every move: as a thinker, as a yogi, as a lover, as a driver, as a skier, as a musician, as a teacher, simply, as a man. You carried us in grace. And often, I carried us in strength. You carried us in patience. I carried us in movement. It was a great fit. We each carried the perfect amount of weight to even out the scale. We balanced one another out.
A testament to your beautiful virtue of patience and grace:
In our shower, my faucet tended to leak. Unless the handle was turned tightly, the head would drip constantly. I never remembered to crank the handle. Within a couple weeks of us moving in together, you said to me, "Hey baby, so in our shower, you need to crank the handle down or your faucet will drip." "Oh, OK! I'll remember," I told you. Over the course of the next six months, you reminded me at least forty times. Always with the same patience, the same tone, and never with an ounce of irritation, "Hey baby, so in our shower, you need to crank the handle down or your faucet will drip." "Argh! Yes!" I would remember. "Hey baby, soooo in our shower..." "Yes, yes yes! The drip," I'd say. Over and over and over and over.
One day, six months later, I stepped into the shower and my handle was wrapped in sparkly duct tape. You were trying a new technique. You realized the method you'd been implementing, verbal reminders, wasn't landing – so without being antagonizing, you tried a different method, a visual reminder. And that landed. And every day since, I've cranked the shower handle.
And now, in your absence, that sparkly duct tape is still there. It's a little 'Hello' from you every time I turn the water on and off. You reminded me for six months about that drip, without fail. And you, with your patience that matches none other, didn't place blame for my forgetfulness. You were gracious, thoughtful, and simply tried something new.
I love you for your patience, Teddy. I love you for your grace. I love you for your strength. And as I move through this grief process, when emotions arise – whether it be depression, tears, anger, desperation, or anything else – I'll remember your grace and your patience. I'll remember that now, in order to carry you on, I must embody you. Maybe in time I will have the steadfast patience that you so beautifully held. Maybe there will be brief moments when your grace shows through my being. And maybe someday, I will still have Grace.
Showing posts with label devotion. Show all posts
Showing posts with label devotion. Show all posts
Devotion
Over the past month my inbox, phone, and ears have been flooded with messages, songs, memories, and compassion. I can't tune out the support if I tried. I always thought you had so many friends, such a network of love, my Ted – more friends than I could ever imagine. But through this harrowing circumstance, I now see that I was blind to the love that I also have.
I remember that during breakfast one of your daily tasks was clicking onto Facebook and seeing who's birthday it was. You would write a personal message to each person. I would watch you, as you typed, then deleted, then typed – and stopped to pause, thinking back about an in-joke or a memory you had with that person – then you would type the rest of your words. Maybe they would read it, or maybe it would get buried under all the other 'Happy Bdays' on their page, but as always, to you, it didn't matter, you put the love out there with affinity, and you meant it. You stayed connected. And you remembered others, always.
There are not many people like that, my love. We get so bogged down with our schedule, our day, and mainly – our ego, that we easily get wrapped up in the self. I know I do. I get wrapped up in how I look. I get wrapped up in comparing myself to others. I get wrapped up in who likes me or who doesn't. I get wrapped up in reading between the lines. I get wrapped in technology. I get wrapped up in right or wrong. I get wrapped up in making money. I spend all this time wrapping myself up, so tightly, that I get bound. I get stuck. You my love, unstuck me. And when I got stuck again, you were an example for how to get unstuck. You never told me to unstick myself, you just represented the path of how to achieve it. Who will unstick me now?
You didn't put off sending those daily devotions until later. Because you knew later might not give you time, or later might not come. You acted in the moment. And you acted for others. You were and are a beacon. You were and are a reminder of how fleeting life is, and how important it is to live in-the-now.
So today, I sat in front of my computer and stared. I scrolled through the messages I'd been sent. I read them all. I read them as if I was reading them to you. I listened to the songs people sent me, even the ones by the bands you hated. I imagined you laughing at that. I responded to as many as I could handle for now, because I want to be intentional and not rush. I am moving slowly, but I promise it's deliberate. Because the support means so much to me. If the airwaves were quiet, your silence would be even more deafening.
--
I went to my first grief support group last night. Twelve other women and one man who all lost their partners/spouses sat around a table with tea and cookies. It was a tea I liked and you hated, we called it Christmas Tea because I thought it tasted like the holiday, although it's actually called Bengal Spice. I was in tears before I even sat down with my scorching cup. I thought about how you would always bring me my tea with three ice cubes in it, because you knew I didn't like it too hot. I thought about how careful you were to steep your tea the proper amount of time – I watched mine burn as it sat boiling in water. I considered sticking my finger into the cup just to see if I could feel any more pain. And then, as I sipped the tea, I thought about Christmas, and realized I could.
We went around the circle and introduced ourselves, told our stories. I cried the most. But not because my story is sadder, they all were. And not because my love is greater, because who am I to calculate the immeasurable? But I was the most raw, it seemed. I was the youngest by at least twenty years. Your death was the most recent. But it was all so sad. Hearing the stories of people who attend this group twice a month, some of whom have been doing it for two or three years. I imagined myself still sitting at this table, with my burnt Christmas Tea and my box of Kleenex, at thirty-three. Where did the time go?
The facilitator told me that sudden death often hits like an airbag. That the wholeness of the reality doesn't land right away. That with the trauma comes a good deal of numbness. That it may take many months for the airbag to deflate, for the realness of the pain to show its face. If this is numbness, than I can't imagine what sensitized feels like. I was horrified.
I heard fourteen lonely stories. Fourteen sad plans of what the upcoming holidays looked like without their mate – they spoke of children without dad, grandchildren without grandpa, mothers without sons, holidays missing tradition. I saw tissue after tissue being moistened with tears and snot, then crumbled up and tossed away into the garbage alongside the dreams of having just one more day with their best friend, just one more night with their lover. I thought of Christmas and the holidays, as they were supposed to be. We were going to have an exciting announcement – we were going to be planning our wedding. And now, there is no wedding and more importantly, there is no you. There is an empty chair at the table – a space where the dreams, future, life, and you once sat. I shouldn't have been so presumptuous. Life is fleeting.
So last night before bed, when I got home from the group meeting, I looked out our window and I dropped to my knees. I knelt, I folded my hands (like I knew I was supposed to, but wasn't sure why), I looked up, and I prayed. I prayed to God. I prayed to you. I prayed to Mother Earth. I prayed to whomever would listen, because I don't think they have ever heard from me before. I begged for your freedom, for your peace. I begged for you not to feel the anguish and desperation that I feel. I begged that you watch over me, but only in the times when I am doing the right thing, because I don't want to disappoint you. I begged for my own peace. I begged for patience. And I begged for eternal love.
I remember that during breakfast one of your daily tasks was clicking onto Facebook and seeing who's birthday it was. You would write a personal message to each person. I would watch you, as you typed, then deleted, then typed – and stopped to pause, thinking back about an in-joke or a memory you had with that person – then you would type the rest of your words. Maybe they would read it, or maybe it would get buried under all the other 'Happy Bdays' on their page, but as always, to you, it didn't matter, you put the love out there with affinity, and you meant it. You stayed connected. And you remembered others, always.
There are not many people like that, my love. We get so bogged down with our schedule, our day, and mainly – our ego, that we easily get wrapped up in the self. I know I do. I get wrapped up in how I look. I get wrapped up in comparing myself to others. I get wrapped up in who likes me or who doesn't. I get wrapped up in reading between the lines. I get wrapped in technology. I get wrapped up in right or wrong. I get wrapped up in making money. I spend all this time wrapping myself up, so tightly, that I get bound. I get stuck. You my love, unstuck me. And when I got stuck again, you were an example for how to get unstuck. You never told me to unstick myself, you just represented the path of how to achieve it. Who will unstick me now?
You didn't put off sending those daily devotions until later. Because you knew later might not give you time, or later might not come. You acted in the moment. And you acted for others. You were and are a beacon. You were and are a reminder of how fleeting life is, and how important it is to live in-the-now.
So today, I sat in front of my computer and stared. I scrolled through the messages I'd been sent. I read them all. I read them as if I was reading them to you. I listened to the songs people sent me, even the ones by the bands you hated. I imagined you laughing at that. I responded to as many as I could handle for now, because I want to be intentional and not rush. I am moving slowly, but I promise it's deliberate. Because the support means so much to me. If the airwaves were quiet, your silence would be even more deafening.
--
I went to my first grief support group last night. Twelve other women and one man who all lost their partners/spouses sat around a table with tea and cookies. It was a tea I liked and you hated, we called it Christmas Tea because I thought it tasted like the holiday, although it's actually called Bengal Spice. I was in tears before I even sat down with my scorching cup. I thought about how you would always bring me my tea with three ice cubes in it, because you knew I didn't like it too hot. I thought about how careful you were to steep your tea the proper amount of time – I watched mine burn as it sat boiling in water. I considered sticking my finger into the cup just to see if I could feel any more pain. And then, as I sipped the tea, I thought about Christmas, and realized I could.
We went around the circle and introduced ourselves, told our stories. I cried the most. But not because my story is sadder, they all were. And not because my love is greater, because who am I to calculate the immeasurable? But I was the most raw, it seemed. I was the youngest by at least twenty years. Your death was the most recent. But it was all so sad. Hearing the stories of people who attend this group twice a month, some of whom have been doing it for two or three years. I imagined myself still sitting at this table, with my burnt Christmas Tea and my box of Kleenex, at thirty-three. Where did the time go?
The facilitator told me that sudden death often hits like an airbag. That the wholeness of the reality doesn't land right away. That with the trauma comes a good deal of numbness. That it may take many months for the airbag to deflate, for the realness of the pain to show its face. If this is numbness, than I can't imagine what sensitized feels like. I was horrified.
I heard fourteen lonely stories. Fourteen sad plans of what the upcoming holidays looked like without their mate – they spoke of children without dad, grandchildren without grandpa, mothers without sons, holidays missing tradition. I saw tissue after tissue being moistened with tears and snot, then crumbled up and tossed away into the garbage alongside the dreams of having just one more day with their best friend, just one more night with their lover. I thought of Christmas and the holidays, as they were supposed to be. We were going to have an exciting announcement – we were going to be planning our wedding. And now, there is no wedding and more importantly, there is no you. There is an empty chair at the table – a space where the dreams, future, life, and you once sat. I shouldn't have been so presumptuous. Life is fleeting.
So last night before bed, when I got home from the group meeting, I looked out our window and I dropped to my knees. I knelt, I folded my hands (like I knew I was supposed to, but wasn't sure why), I looked up, and I prayed. I prayed to God. I prayed to you. I prayed to Mother Earth. I prayed to whomever would listen, because I don't think they have ever heard from me before. I begged for your freedom, for your peace. I begged for you not to feel the anguish and desperation that I feel. I begged that you watch over me, but only in the times when I am doing the right thing, because I don't want to disappoint you. I begged for my own peace. I begged for patience. And I begged for eternal love.
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