Tag: love

Aunt Daisy

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My heart is heavy, broken, and full all at the same time. Don’t ask me how that’s possible; it just is. My Aunt Daisy passed this weekend after struggling with complications arising from an autoimmune disorder. I was able to join her family, along with my sister, and nephew to say goodbye. I would like to take a moment to honor her memory and share some things that matter to me.

My Aunt Daisy had a quick wit and a delightfully wicked sense of humor. The master of a dirty joke or double-entendre. It’s no wonder she and my Dad, her big brother got along so well.

In the last years of his life, my aunt and uncle welcomed my Dad into their home, providing a space of familial comfort, laughter, emotional safety and what my Dad described as a “big black hole of love.” In that time, she encouraged and persuaded my father to mend his rift with me—a gift beyond measure.

Aunt Daisy was an RN who later pursued and achieved her Master’s degree in nursing. She was astute, knowledgeable, deliberate. She was a caregiver both as a profession but also as a core piece of her identity.

My auntie was an incredible cook, a fantastic baker, a mushroom hunter, a fisherwoman. She was a loving and beloved wife to my Uncle John. She took care of many of her nieces and nephews and I’m lucky to have had the time with her I did. Most of all, she loved her babies and grand babies.

Human beings are complicated, multi-faceted, adapting, evolving creatures. No list I can create will tell the full story, but I can say for certain I know she loved me and I her. I can also say it was my honor and privilege to get to be with her and her family this past weekend. Doing the very hardest things with great love, I believe, constitutes a sacred prayer. I got to bear witness to those sacred prayers and offer my own as well.

A Part

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I have this part of me that developed when I was a little girl. She’s the part of me that decided instead of being reactive to unexpected hurt (Mom’s going to the hospital. Mom’s getting an apartment and not coming home. Our parents are splitting. Here’s this new lady Daddy likes and spends time with. Your home is broken. Get used to this new normal, which isn’t.) she was going to be preemptive. Imagine every possible worse case scenario, worry about it, worry about even the most inexplicably random, improbable things because, you just never know. You didn’t think your family would fall apart and it did. Why wouldn’t it be possible that you would be a coked out homeless teenager in New York City–heck even Nancy Reagan was warning you it might happen. It’s very much a child’s logic and yet, that part of me has played a large part in my adult life. It doesn’t help when the worst case scenario is realized as it was with Bryan’s illness. It reinforces that thinking.

But here I am navigating the world as a single adult and doing so with some moderately measurable amounts of success. I open the pickle jars on my own. I changed a lightbulb in the laundry room yesterday evening. I’m having a neighbor build me a fence that has been long overdue. Problems arrive and I tackle them with maybe some frustration occasionally that I have to, but then I do it. Some items on my to-do list have taken longer for me than maybe I’d have preferred, but I did those too. I guess what I’m trying to say is that I’m trying to persuade the childlike part of me who deals with heavy big feels and worry that actually my track record in facing hard things as a grown-up is pretty good. And while I appreciate the fierce determination this little person inside has to protect me, it hurts more than my simply dealing with things as they come.

I’m a pretty creative person. I paint and garden and bake and write and I have an imagination that is rich, vivid, and detailed. This is so much fun when it is. And scary as all heck when a childlike skillset utiizes a big, adult brain. Yowza! I’m trying to be soft and appreciative to this part and to let her know I’m the grown-up in the equation now and I’ve got this. It’s okay. You did your job, but I’ve got the wheel.

You

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It is very easy to go dark, dark in thoughts, dark in attitudes, dark in words. The pull is strong. In this place, self-doubt, anxiety, worry, heartache, shame, all bubble up. I’m no stranger to this place. I’ve not just been a tourist there; I’ve taken up residence there. It’s not my favorite place to live. Usually, I fight like hell to get out and stay far away from it. One of the constant refrains on the loudspeaker in this place is the lie that those feelings are deserved, earned. Self-worth is questioned. Purpose is ridiculed. I write this as a love letter to anyone who has been in this place and to myself, too…

One of the things I love most about my time working at a liberal arts college is the emphasis on interdisciplinary learning. How there are things to gather from diverse places to create a more rounded out picture. Its a way of thinking that I dabble in and enjoy quite a bit. Recently, I had dinner with a dear childhood friend. We talked about a number of things not the least of which were our respective preferred art forms–writing for him, painting for me. We all have a voice to share and our internal editors can hamper it. Living in that dark place can also hamper it. I recalled a song from our childhood–“This Little Light of Mine.” As much as the modern world would like to say we’re all the same and not special or unique, I would disagree. Are we better than? No. But do we have things unique to ourselves to offer the world. Absolutely. And I believe the purpose of this life is to connect with others, to weave bonds of life–thought and emotion–and ultimately to love. We do this with our own “little lights.”

My husband was a big fan of Crosby, Stills, and Nash. Their music featured largely in our home. It’s not lost on me the humor and delight that countercultural music from the 1960s would echo a sentiment from my Sabbath School class. “I Almost Cut My Hair” has a line “I feel like letting my freak flag fly” and later “I feel like I owe it to someone.” By being you, you give space for others to be themselves. “Hiding it under a bushell (aka large basket)” serves no one, not you, not the greater world.

Whether you believe in a Divine entity who created us or that we are the product of minute changes over millenia–stardust that has become self-aware–or some combination thereof, the end result is we’re here now and that fact is pretty damned amazing. And that we won’t be for very long means there’s no cutting corners, or skimping, or hiding under a bushel. Your “muchness” (thank you Tim Burton’s 2010 Alice in Wonderland), my “muchness”, are desperately needed, for connection, for the sake of all. You are worthy. You have purpose. Bad things and feelings are just part and parcel to a rich life full of every facet of the human experience. Your little light, your freak flag, your muchness are your superpowers and we need them.

Compliments

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La Rochefoucauld was a lot of fun to study in college. His maxims were short (suck it Proust) and great springboards for discussion. One that I have tried to take to heart personally is “Le refus de louanges est le désir d’être loué deux fois.” (The refusal of praise is a desire to be praised twice.) With that in mind, I try simply to say thank you–motivated by a desire to get past my own awkwardness. This clip from Wayne’s World (while not exactly about compliments) demonstrates what I mean. And for the record, I’m Garth in this scenario: https://youtu.be/8MLiHp2LH48?si=YYQiq2L1rVj4UF04

It’s sometimes difficult to hear something that doesn’t match what our internal critic says about us. Instead we can react negatively to what the one complimenting has offered up. Oh, that can’t possibly be true because this awful bully inside me says you’re wrong. I had never considered before, until recently, that a refusal of a compliment is also an invalidation of the speaker’s feelings. Wow. So not only has my internal critic been hurting me, now it seeks to hurt others. Rude.

Let’s be clear, though. I’m talking about sincere compliments from the heart. Pat phrases and compliments given in an effort to curry favor or to be part of some sort of cheesy pick-up can be disregarded. Usually, it’s pretty easy to tell which are which. But sincere, kind, gifts of the heart should be treated accordingly and I need to remember that.

In Repair

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When I was in the French grad program at Ohio University, my good friend, Amy, loved and listened to John Mayer a lot. She went to his concerts and was a vocal fan. Aside from “Your Body is a Wonderland” (because who wouldn’t want a troubadour with a guitar serenading that?!?!), I really didn’t get the appeal. Until now. I can fully admit I am embracing John Mayer fandom. His music, in this particular season of my life is hitting hard and I love it.

I didn’t write or post anything about Father’s  Day this year. Instead, I went a quieter more somber route. I have been mulling things over, particularly this song https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=rZLbUIa7exE&pp=ygUsZmF0aGVycyBiZSBnb29kIHRvIHlvdXIgZGF1Z2h0ZXJzIGpvaG4gbWF5ZXI%3D as it relates to my dad and me. You see, my dad was magic—straight charisma, charm, and humor. To bask in his sunlight was everything. But he could turn it off like a switch, perhaps as a defense mechanism for his own tender heart and insecurities. His humor danced a razor’s edge of warm teasing to mocking cudgel. In my 20s, more than once or twice, I found myself drawn to men who had similar tendencies and to be near that magic, that sunlight was enough, for a while, enough to tolerate poor behavior, enough to offer far more than I received. These are easy patterns for me to fall into because they’re so familiar.

Remarkably, however, I did not marry a man like my father. Oh sure, Bryan was charming and charismatic, but I never had the fear of him turning that off. And instead of just shining his light, he sought mine and encouraged me in every way he knew to make my light shine brighter. As the lyrics go, “daughters will love like you do.” I see the way Mary loves her friends, family, work, community in like manner to her dad.

I’m not trying to be hurtful to my dad’s memory. He had moments of great introspection and growth. He worked very hard to be a better dad than his own father and succeeded. And he could say I am sorry and did. Nevertheless, the legacy of father-daughter relationships and their effects echo in the hall. I think wanting to be close to that light and feel warmed by it because it feels good is why I am drawn to larger-than-life, charismatic men and have had a history of subsuming my own interests and pride just to be near the light. It is so good to reflect on that and to remember how Bryan sought my light. I think the ending of this song brings those ideas to bear in a really beautiful way. https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=7VBex8zbDRs&pp=ygUSam9obiBtYXllciBncmF2aXR5

Finally, when I told my good friend, Amy about my John Mayer late-bloomer discovery, she encouraged me to listen to “In Repair” suggesting it might be an anthem for where I’m at. If you can, go find the lyrics. They’re absolutely spot on. I’m in repair from the consequences of grief and bereavement. I’m in repair in many other ways. My friend, N, calls it “doing the work.” It’s important to recognize what has brought us to this point, extend grace, but acknowledge one’s own responsibility to grow, change, and heal. I am “In Repair” and I’m just fine with that. https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=Bq8SBDv7Wn4&pp=ygUUaW4gcmVwYWlyIGpvaG4gbWF5ZXI%3D