Posted in God, Lanscape of Loss, letting go, Light

WTF God

Dear God,

WTF!

Why you keep giving me awesome things and then taking them away!

6012
Licorice
Colorado
Trisha
Lila
Innocence
Childhood
Magic
Conception

And the worse yet–motherhood! Sacrifice everything. End up with nothing.

And love! 
31years with only one possible ending.
Loss

WTF God! I hate you! I wish I never met you! You suck!

Knowing you. Loving you. Has been the biggest heartbreak of all.

Why such separation? Why do you mock me from the sky? Why aren’t I your only. Where is YOUR constancy? Why do you hide? 

I am terrified to find myself tip toeing toward you again. 

I have only just recovered from our breakup.
39.5 years ago.

There!

THE END.

On, and Fuck YOU!

(sorry about that.)

hope you’re well & all.
let’s have tea sometime.

~

(Written February 2017 in Writing Down the Light program with Joan Borysenko at Kripalu)

Posted in Lanscape of Loss, Light, Markers, Return, Spring

Let It Be

It was a quarter of a century ago that I spent SpRiNg Vacation bleeding, assured by technicians & physicians that everything “looked good.” (My progesterone was just low and so they gave me some to take.)

It was this night that I would wake before dawn with a kind of rhythmic cramp that I’d never felt before, on & off, on & off. I thought I had a stomach virus.

By morning, I knew something was wrong and so I woke my husband and we drove an hour to the hospital. The midwife extracted the intact sac from my cervix. At least that’s how I remember it. That’s what I can still feel between my legs all these years later.

April 19th.

I’ve never forgotten the date even though the agony of loss was later overwhelmed by the joy of two sons, but not until I miscarried that fall. We had conceived immediately that time, living in the little ski rental beside the brook above the mill across from the cow pasture, our first place in Vermont.

It was the grief of the first loss, at the end of the first trimester, after a year of trying, that drove us from home–from the sea to the Green Mountains.

I was teaching 3rd & 4th grade in a little school nestled against a mountain just across from the ski place when they called me with the results of the ultrasound. I took the call in the nurse’s office and then went into the bathroom and sobbed before returning to my classroom.

I left that school after a single year. I loved my students, but I had fallen into despair, working 12 hours days, which was never enough, thinking my life would always be like that.

My sister sent me a cassette tape in the mail. “Bridge Over Troubled Water.” I’d always loved bridges even though I’d planned to name both babies after the Beloved who I lost to one. I still have that plastic Easter Egg that I painted this month all those years ago–a small-petaled flower and the name: Lila.

“When you’re weary, feeling small. When tears are in your eyes, I will dry them off.

I’m on your side…”

I never went back to teaching after that, not full time, but next week I’m returning to that school to consider a classroom support position, twenty-five years after I left.

Perhaps there’s a bit of soul retrieval going on behind the scenes with both boys graduating, one from college, the other from high school, and the book about my grandmother rounding its last corner.

Let it be.

That was the other song from the tape that ministered to me,

“Mother Mary comes to me…

Let it be.”

I’m still learning what that means.

Posted in Apprenticeship with my own passing, Lanscape of Loss, Light

Winter Meditations

Decades ago, I came across a quote that spoke of kindness like drops of water filling a vessel until it spills over.

I wonder if it’s the same with hurts. Does everything accumulate? Is there always a tipping point?

Or should there be no accumulation of anything? Should everything flow, pain as well as kindness?

Do I grasp and hold onto injury as much as I do love?

What would come of opening and feeling all of it without holding on?

Instead of weighted and bruised and scabbed, my heart is as soft as a petal.

~

Whenever I have trouble getting the woodstove going, I think about that family when I was a girl in Colorado.

Why did that fire, unwanted, burn so easily?

And then I think of other things, like pregnancy. A single spring at the bloom of 16, one terrifying conception after the other, while a decade later, an entire year of yearning, followed by one heartbreaking miscarriage and then another.

And what about gardens? We work so hard to grow things, while other things grow no matter how hard we labor against them.

Criticism is like that. Sticky.
Compliments… slippery.

People take their lives while others fight to hang on, leaving behind lovers or life’s work or little children and the span of light-filled years expected to unfold…

I don’t like puzzles much, except for the edges. I like the edges of brownies and cookies too. Movies and storybooks run along the edges–the crispy, chewy stuff–without all the soft middles of indigestion & weeding & building the fire & making appointments.

When we do die, I wonder if all the pieces of the puzzle fall into place and look beautiful.

I wonder if we look back and wish for more middles.

~

Sometimes I avoid going to bed because I feel too overwhelmed about climbing the stairs and flossing my teeth. And when I finally do face it, I’m surprised and congratulatory, “Yay, Kelly, you did it,” but then another night comes, and I’m overwhelmed and resistant all over again.

Sometimes I resist going to bed because it’s a little like dying and I don’t want to miss anything.

Sometimes I go to bed just so a new day can come and I can have another cup of tea.

But back to flossing. If I gave it up, I think I’d get more sleep. Less teeth. More sleep.