Last Fall I spent a lot of time in an old fishing boat that had been left on the bank. It became a sort of security blanket, when life became overwhelming. Sometimes I’d just sit in it and let squirrels throw nuts down at me. Other times, I’d push it out onto the lake, and lie back, and think, and half-hope I didn’t float too far away. It’s not there this year. Someone carried it off. Maybe they needed it more than I did. Maybe they just got tired of me stealing their boat.
Last night I crawled into the water. Put my face toward the sky. And began to float. I imagined what it would be like to feel that weightless, to feel that lifted up and carried along and free, all the time.
Like the wings of eagles. Where you run and don’t grow weary. Where you walk and don’t grow faint.
Water’s like that. And I fit there. Like I don’t fit anywhere else. It doesn’t fill me. It doesn’t give me back what I’ve lost. But it fills the hole I circle around during the day. The one I fall into at night.
And I’m afraid of it.
Even as I lay myself upon it. I’m afraid.
But past the fear I can be still, in the water. And I can be at peace with that stillness. I can let go and breathe and be carried along. I can be weightless. I can have wings.
This morning my hair is still wet. And the hole is still there. But so is the water.
I don’t get nostalgic. I’m not a proud mountaineer. I don’t wear the gold and the blue. I don’t sing “Coal Miner’s Daughter” like I used to.
“Oh I’m proud to be a coal miner’s daughter.
I remember well, the well where I drew water.
Nothing’s left, but the floors,
Nothing lives here, anymore.
‘Cept the memories of a coal miner’s daughter.”
I don’t sit around the fire with my coffee mug, like a delicate flask, thinking about ‘the good old days’. I never have. I probably never will. I don’t listen to “Country Roads” and get excited or feel like singing along. Even though I think I should.
But I do stop at this little intersection. A lot. I stare to the left of me. At the countryside and the winding road and the tractor in the distance. And when I do my heart is filled with something. I just don’t know what. I don’t know if I’ll ever know what. But it’s there. And it reminds me of a little boy, running through the mountains, with no daddy. And no shoes.
And it contents me.
Bridge Day is an annual one-day festival in Fayetteville, West Virginia. All four lanes of the bridge are closed to automobiles and opened to pedestrians. Estimates have 100,000 people attending the overall event. It’s the only day of the year people are allowed to BASE jump off the bridge into the New River Gorge 876 feet (267 meters) below. People are also allowed to rappel from the span on Bridge Day (CRAZEEE). About four hundred BASE jumpers participate in each year’s festival.
This year we got up at the crack of dawn, and hiked our way to the best view in the house. Where we sat and froze our ever loving arses off for four hours. Totally. Worth it.
Bridge Day – October 2015
“When I became a man I put away childish things. Including the fear of childishness and the desire to be very grown up.” ― C.S. Lewis
Last weekend I went looking for a tractor. I found a bale of hay, instead. I don’t remember what compelled me to want to climb on the thing. I do remember thinking “this isn’t going to feel very nice”. But it felt fine. Except for that one moment, when it didn’t.
I laughed a lot that day. In that field. On that hay. Hysterically, and without shame. Even when I found myself stuck, rolling off the side like some limp thing.
Later, when photos began to surface-photos that I posed for, quite happily-I was mortified. For just a moment. Then, I got over myself. Because the self is a terrible thing to be under.
He said it was mysterious. The way I showed up, every evening. Silent and barefoot. With my shoes in my hand. I said she called life a luminous halo. Then she walked into the water. And never walked back out again.
Ma never acted her age. She never sat down. Never stood still. She didn’t take naps like Pa did. Didn’t do “grown up” things, where children weren’t involved.
She laughed and smiled at everyone.
At 70, she still liked to skip and bounce. To go out for ice cream at 9pm. To throw big elaborate pajama parties, where we would wear matching pjs, bake cookies, and drink punch out of fancy crystal.
I once asked her why she never stopped to rest. How she managed to keep up with herself, when I couldn’t even keep pace. She said “One of these days, I’m gonna lie down and never get back up. And these are the things I’m gonna dream about.” Then she told me to go to bed. Because I looked tired.
She would have been 77 years old today. So I’ve been thinking about her…and all those things her dreams were made of.
I want to see Petra.
I want to stand on the road to Damascus.
I want to yell into the Grand Canyon and off of the Great Wall of China.
I want to sit in that Milanese noodle hall. Stare at a Florentine’s image of a blue-eyed Christ.
I want to climb Machu Picchu and Table Mountain and fly by the Matterhorn.
I want to wear silly shirts and frilly dresses.
I want a Harley.
I want to hear the whir of the Large Hadron Collider. Feel it spin below me.
I want to touch a glacier, swim in a fjord, and run with the bulls.
I want to love as simply as I’m loved.
I want to be loved…as much as I love.
I want to do it all.
And I want to do it well.
In tiny little moments.
I started cussing when Ma died. Hard core mouthfuls. Obscenities I never knew I knew. It was the only thing that made me feel better. It was the only thing that made me feel good. And I liked it.
That’d be hard for Ma to handle, if she knew. I don’t have to imagine what she’d say. She’d tell me, “We don’t talk like that.” She’d tell me, “What we do, is pray.” But the problem is, it took her two months to die. And somewhere during those two months, somewhere in the midst of the morphine and the oxygen and the vision of her body, decaying around her, I forgot how to pray. So, when she died, I swore.
Grief. No one ever talks about it. We talk about loss. We talk about sympathy. We mouth words of empathy, in our own self-relevant ways. “I lost my father three years ago…” Etc. But we never talk about grief, or its overwhelming complexity.
We expect the first days to be the toughest. What we expect, is to mourn in patterns. In ways that make sense to us. We expect to be overcome by the bedside, the funeral, the interment. We expect to lean on loved ones. Or, if you’re like me, to withdraw from them. We expect to cry, to fold into ourselves now and then, in the days that follow. We expect to experience…something familiar. Something we can understand.
What we do not expect, what we are not prepared for, is everything else. We do not, for instance, expect it to come at us, from the ether, in unintelligible waves. In the shower. In the middle of the day. In the middle of the night. In the middle of a conversation about something as irrelevant as botany. We do not expect it to make our limbs grow cold. Or to cause us to forget the names of our co-workers. Or to indefinitely remove our appetite for our favorite foods. We do not expect to begin shaking in rigid, uncontrollable fits, as we are sitting, relaxing, in a sports bar, on a Sunday afternoon in March.
I would read, later, that such a reaction is not uncommon in those under extreme stress. Fight or flight. When our bodies are at their most primordial. Survival. It makes sense, now. But at the time…I didn’t know.
Grief is never passive. At some level, we understand that. Even as we long for time to speed by and our hurt to heal, we know there’s more to loss, and its process, than those first sharp, painful days. But we often fail to recognize the dull, spasmodic moments that arrive in the later stages of bereavement. When we’re not sad. When we’re not depressed. When we’re not angry. When we’re not alone. When we’re just sitting down for dinner wondering why we feel not quite right.
Grief is like wading through molasses.
I wish someone would have told me how disorienting and isolating it would be. How it dims our senses. Our sensibilities. How it pulls us out of our life and out of our self. Had I known, I could have absorbed it better. I could have compartmentalized.
But no one’s going to tell us the truth. No one’s going to tell us that grief is what insanity feels like. That grief is what insanity…is.
Maybe they don’t know how. Maybe they’re afraid. Maybe they worry we won’t understand. And they’re right. We won’t. Unless we’ve been there. If we’ve been there, we know. We understand the words even if we cannot utter them, ourselves.
We experience our loss in different ways, but we all search for the same clarity and mortal understanding. We relive the same scenes. Repetitive. Obsessive. We ask the same question. Over and over, again.
We insist on meaning. And that is our mistake. That, is our narcotic.
It is the thing that causes our throats to tighten and our hearts to race. It is the thing that brings us to our knees, and forces us to walk the floor. It is the thing that drives us, as it did me last weekend, five hours from home, to scream the word WHATNOT on a McDowell County mountain.
Ma loved whatnots.
Dolls and trinkets.
Little things of no real consequence.
It is easier to scream “WHATNOT!” than”WHY?“.
In “The Year of Magical Thinking” Joan Didion talks about the blank look she sees on the faces of people who have recently lost someone. Like Didion, I see it, too. I recognize it because I’ve seen it on myself.
THE LOOK is one of extreme nakedness. It is the look of someone who walks from the ophthalmologist’s office into the bright daylight with dilated eyes, or of someone who wears glasses and is suddenly made to take them off.
It is the look of the invisible. It is the look of the lost.
By Ma’s bedside, moments after her passing.
As I sit here, I have no real clarity. No honest understanding. No full or final knowledge.
I have no answers.
But I know the hurt recedes, even if the emptiness grows fuller. We find peace in between the quiet, and the mournful moments. We learn how to heal ourselves in sudden, and sometimes frightening, ways.
I still don’t know how to pray. But it’s easier for me to understand the abstract concept of life after death than to find meaning in the knowledge that my mother is no more. So, I still believe in god. I still believe in heaven.
I just wish someone would have told me that grief is an illness. That I’d have to lose my mind in order to find it. That on a cold January night, a year from when it first began, I’d be standing by her graveside, reaching for something higher than myself, and breaking my voice over a word I don’t know how to spell. I don’t even know if it’s really a word.