Poetry 170: Ambiguous Loss Part II

Ambiguous Loss Part II

 

“Absence and presence are not absolutes.”

-Pauline Boss, Ph.D.

 

Though not logical,

because I still carry

a 1978 photo of her—the one

with the blue eye shadow

and the flower-print skirt—

in the back of my wallet,

but when another

Pacific-size wave

of gut-wrenching grief

swells over me yet again,

it still comes as if 

from out of the blue. 

I am always

so unprepared.

 

Especially when the

time-lapse between

the last ripples that

barely covered my feet or

the latest tsunami

that took me out for weeks

have grown a little longer.

 

Or perhaps it is

because I have 

consciously, unconsciously, 

turned my back again

on those sorrow-filled

waters in the understandable 

yet futile effort to

try to look forward;

the downside of which

always comes when 

the unbearable weight of water

soaks me through

to the bone, leaving both

surprise and disappointment.

 

Surprise because that grown,

and dare I say healed

part of me, has learned

to actively live her

present-day life

with both vigor and delight.

 

Disappointment because

that eternal child-like part of

me continues to magically wish

this pain would finally

cease to exist, and

never, ever, return.

 

But that’s not how

ambiguous loss works,

does it?

 

Unlike the finality of death,

ambiguous loss can

seductively fade into the

shadows of existence and

nightmares where you

find a rhythm of complacency

masquerading as peace. 

But then, the grief

sneaks up behind you and 

not-so-subtlety dumps

an entire bucket of freezing

cold water right over the

top of your head,

causing you to shake and tremble 

as she mocks you

because decades later

you ridiculously continue

to believe that

1 + 1 will equal 2,

when you know,

you know, that never

was the case- at least

not in your experience.

 

But here’s the thing,

you also know,

in that wise sort of

deep-down-in-the-core

-of-your-being kind of knowing,

that, as Robert Frost wrote,

the way out is through.

 

And that, paradoxically,

living with ambiguous loss

likely begins with befriending

and embracing her, not

denying and rejecting.

 

Though I must candidly admit,

even as I write these very words,

I hear a voice inside

my head saying:

easier said then done my friend.

Especially with her warm flesh,

in cold, cruel reality,

still living less than

15 minutes from

my own doorstep.

 

Nonetheless, here we are.

 

This is the dilemma.

This is the challenge.

This is ambiguous loss.

 

-Me

Notes From Mindful Self-Compassion: The Relative & The Absolute

It’s 3 in the morning, and with another bout of insomnia, I’m looking out at the night sky.

Not a terrible way to spend my time, but to be clear, I’d rather be sound asleep right now.

(Especially when I’m due at work in 5 1/2 hours!)

But given the sleepless circumstances, it is a more accepting way to peacefully co-exist with my periodic insomnia (bothersome though it may be) as opposed to the futile act of resisting the inevitable tossing and turning in bed next to my fitfully sleeping family.

Some might call this effort of mine: "Self Compassion in Everyday Life," 'which is actually something my Mindful Self-Compassion teacher, Christine, has been trying to instill in me and the other 26 students in our 10-Week Online MSC course.

And just to make a little bit of lemon aid out of lemons, it also offers a way for me to balance and tolerate the ebb and flow of the relative and the absolute of this small human life in the context of an inconceivably vast cosmos, when on this night, it is the relative that keeps me awake:

• me or my family getting COVID-19,
• the school shutting down due to COVID-19,
• the Supreme Court vacancy,
• my daughter’s difficulty reading,
• the estrangement from my family of origin,
• the lumps in my husbands abdomen,
• the uncomfortable email exchange with a colleague yesterday,
• etc., etc.

Because you see, it under the Universe of stars, that the absolute is my balm.

So I gather a soft blanket around my shoulders, quietly tip toe through the house to avoid waking my family on the creaky wood floorboards, open the slider to the back deck, step out, and look up and out upon the infinite.

Then, as my mind wanders back to its list of worries—as it does within seconds even under that magnificent wonder of galactic size and beauty—I repeat the words attributed to the 14th century Christian mystic and first known female writer in the English language, Julian of Norwich, who wrote:

All shall be well. And all shall be well. And all manner of thing shall be well.

Or, in the words of a more modern spiritual mystic, American author Annie Dillard in her 1999 book For the Time Being:

There is no one here but us chickens, and so it has always been: a people busy and powerful, knowledgeable, ambivalent, important, fearful, and self-aware; a people who scheme, promote, deceive, and conquer; who pray for their loved ones, and long to flee misery and skip death...There never was a more holy age than ours, and never a less.

May I take these words into my heart so that I may bear the relative in the midst of the ever present absolute.

May you as well.

Poetry 169: Small

Small

 

I’ve trained myself

to be invisible.

 

Over and over again.

 

Because if you are

too this or too that

they will crush you.

 

The trick is to likable

but forgettable-

not an easy tight

rope to walk

to be sure.

 

To share enough

but not too much.

 

You must show you

are listening, but

not demanding or

commanding any attention

for yourself.

 

And what you do share,

MUST not outshine

the others. So you

choose your words

ridiculously wisely.

 

Something that contributes,

but in no way suggests

I am any more

than average. In no way

suggests I am any bigger

than my small self.

 

It’s exhausting.

 

And it’s sad.

The way I contort

my body and mind into

a pretzel shape

so that the other person

does not feel uncomfortable

in any way.

 

I wish I could

be brave enough

to just be.

To speak when

I want to speak.

To share when I

have something to

contribute.

To live fully and wholly.

 

But I don’t.

 

I stay small and

polite in my

little box so others

can continue to feel

bigger, smarter, stronger,

more-than me.

 

Does that make me less-than?

 

I know it doesn’t.

And some day,

some day,

I will find my freedom.

I will find my voice.

 

-Me

Poetry 168: On My Birthday

To live is so startling,

it leaves but little room

for other occupations...

~Emily Dickinson~

On My Birthday

 

I’ve been visiting

here for exactly 43

years today, and

I’m still just scratching

the surface.

 

(What length of time

would be enough

you think?)

 

The oldest person to

ever live in my family

died in her 86th year,

so I figure

I’m either half-way through

this trip or something a

little (or a lot) shorter.

 

Which means,

if this were a marathon

(which I’d be walking

because I don’t run),

I guess I’d be at mile 13.1-

finally hitting my stride.

 

(Did it take me too long

you think?)

 

Not long ago

I met a Vietnam Veteran

who at 79 decided

he needed to talk

with a therapist

for the first time

in his life to

“sort some things out.”

 

Man, I thought,

I had to start that

process in the womb...

 

Nevertheless, I’ve met

some wonderful people

along the way.

Kind, loving, honest.

 

And, I’ve met some

really shitty people too.

Mean, cold-hearted, gas lighters.

 

Yet all the while,

I continue to thank god

for bringing me here;

even if

I’m not sure

I’d want to do it

all over again.

 

(Is that wrong to say

you think?)

 

It's just that,

to be honest,

I do find living on earth

to be pretty hard at times.

Not this exact moment

per se, but in general,

yes, yes I do.

 

Still, I do love the children;

mine and all others.

And the music-

the music is wonderful.

And the clouds...

all those gorgeous formations

against that sea blue sky- brilliant!

 

Yes, there is so much

to see and hear and touch

and smell and taste

on this unlikely funny little

blue and green sphere

that spins through

the universe.

 

I will try to make

the most of it.

I will.

 

-Me