Past Is Prologue, Part Two

 Memory--both bane and blessing!  When Shane was first lost to me, the times I was impatient, crabby, or unkind came flooding back. In that First Worst Week I stapled the pages of my journal closed so I would be unable to go back into my past and review the times I had been less than my best self. And by “less than my best self” I might be referring to the time I told him he “was just lucky I was such an F-ing saint.” Except I didn’t say it as “F-ing.” And I might have “said” it at top volume—sounding more like a Shakespearean fishwife than a saint. Which, even at that time, the incongruity made me laugh. Do Saints go around proclaiming their Sainthood at top volume? With swearing? Probably not.

I experienced the common compulsion to Deify my lost love. The annoyances fell away. Shane was the Saint, a unicorn, a man above men. When my husband was stripped from my life, any of the imperfections became unimportant—all that mattered was his essence: his love, his humor, his gentle spirit. The fact that he insisted on folding the towels “wrong” no longer mattered.

 

Except—it kind of does. In keeping the memory of those little “quirks” about Shane, he gets to live on—more fully fleshed out than just a saint. The kids and I keep his “Shane-isms” alive in our conversations. We tell stories, we make jokes. We threaten to delay a loved one’s imminent departure by changing the oil or rotating the tires on their car, “real quick, won’t take but a minute.” 

Summer 1978

Seven years ...and love survives at the cellular level. Even as we shed our past, dissolve and transform, we carry the DNA of love into our future. Love is both energy and matter—it never ends, no matter how many years have passed.

Past Is Prologue, Part One

“Outside in the porch swing with my first cup of tea. The morning is cool, as it should be in June, and the swing rocks slowly. It seems a day of infinite possibilities—a day when a boy on a motorcycle might kiss a girl on a horse. A long, glorious summer day that will give way to a short summer night, a night of stars and kisses, whispered promises and scraps of poems.

For me, this is a month loaded with events and memories. Events that are celebrated but missing some of their zest. My birthday. Father’s Day, a bittersweet day--three beautiful young men a testament to our love’s immortality. Shane’s birthday at the end of this month, a day that has been traditionally celebrated with a huge German chocolate cake—his favorite. Memories are both blessing and curse.”  

I wrote that seven years ago, that First Worst June. Seven years—how can that be? Seven years since that January morning when Shane went out for gasoline and never returned. It is both forever ago and just yesterday. 

When I was a kid, I believed the prevailing wisdom that our bodies completely renew themselves every seven years—that all of our cells are gradually replaced over that time and we are a “new” person.  It seems so cruel to me now, to think that none of the surface of my skin bears Shane’s touch, no pat on my shoulder, no warm embrace. There is only the memory of that touch, and the tears spill. 

Time heals—yet seems the cruelest of chrysalises—a carapace that protects as we transform—but we still have to dissolve from who we were. Our future self begins to shape itself inside of the walls of Time. That process is both horrific and beautiful.

When You Don’t Know What to Say:

 A loving reminder to those who would comfort the grieving

Please don’t say “At least _________.” 

Please don’t look on the bright side of things, or try to find the silver lining for someone’s grief. While your heart is absolutely in the right place and your intentions are good—you are essentially denying their grief, trying to limit it; trying to push it down in to a manageable size. Don’t do that.

Grief is huge. And it’s going to be huge for quite a while, probably for much longer than you’re going to be comfortable with. And you have to let it. You have to sit next to a grieving someone you care about and just let it BE.

I know it’s hard. But you can do this. They need you to be able to do this. So hug them. Listen to them. Let them cry. Let them not cry, whatever. Tell stories, share memories, say the name of their loved one. This grief thing is going to take a while. It just does.

I'll say it again, the best advice I can give you is to go ahead and let them GRIEVE. Let it in. Weep. Mourn. Let them find comfort in Ritual, even if they need to invent one for themselves. Don’t shut off your feelings and don’t try to "make it better" and shut down theirs. 

Grieving takes time. Lots of it. Everyone is different-- don’t tell anyone that they need to “move on.” That’s probably just your blissful ignorance talking---you don’t know the hard truth that they know. They ARE moving through grief; tears and pain and sadness are a part of that process. 

Want something concrete to do? Stay hydrated. Seriously—when all else fails, go drink a glass of water.  Bring them water. Grief is dehydrating. It’s one tiny thing you can DO to make things better. 

And if it’s not “better”? Well, at least it didn’t make things worse. 

Some days, that is victory enough.

Survive Grief Again

 In November, Mom passed away at the age of 90 and I’ve been thinking a lot about grief, again. I didn’t get to say goodbye to her, except in my heart. 

It has now been five years since my husband went out to get gas for his truck. I never saw him again. I had casually said goodbye, and it ended up being so.

In the days and weeks and months---and now years---that followed, I was given a crash course in grief.  I was also given a front row seat to seeing love in action. Loving people willingly walked into the darkness with me and held my hand. I learned much during that time and in the years since. 

I don’t think Americans are comfortable with the thought of grief; we don’t want to look at it, we don’t know how to deal with it. And, to be more honest, I don’t think we realize that you don’t “deal” with grief at all---you just experience it. Grief is not really “manageable” ---it just IS.

I can hear you saying “Gee Sue, thanks for the tip! Survive grief by NOT managing it. Awesome. Very helpful.” I know it seems counter intuitive, we want to DO something, FIX it, stop it, control it. Make the pain and the soul numbing sadness GO AWAY.

But you can’t. And it won’t. Eventually, the pain either lessens, or we become more accustomed to it but I don’t know that it ever STOPS.  At five years in I’m still learning as I go. 

Hydrate. Cry. Repeat.

 

But I DO know how to survive the First Worsts, the first awful year following a loss. The best advice I can give you is to go ahead and GRIEVE. Let it in. Weep. Mourn. Find comfort in Ritual, even if you need to invent one for yourself. Don’t shut off your feelings and don’t let others---as well-meaning as they might be—try to shut your grief down. 

Grieving takes time. Lots of it. Everyone is different, don’t let anyone tell you that you need to “move on.” That’s probably just their blissful ignorance talking---they don’t know the hard truth that you know. You are moving through grief, tears and pain and sadness are a part of that process. Stay hydrated. Seriously—when all else fails, go drink a glass of water. It’s one tiny thing you can DO to make things better. And if it’s not “better”? Well, at least it didn’t make things worse. Some days, that itself is a victory.

Thoughts Then, Thoughts Now

 

Compiled from excerpts of past Garden Gate columns, by my friend and co-worker, Haze, during the week I was in no shape to write. Thanks Haze!

Life, like any garden, has seasons.

I often speak of the Circle of Life, of season’s coming and going, of the natural order of things. It seems to me, however, that there are parts of the whole Circle of Life thing that I’d really rather just not think about, except in distant theory.

That is until the theory becomes cruel fact and I must spend time thinking about the reality of Life’s circle. this week, My mom passed away...And I am suddenly a motherless child, in a cold world, weeping on the floor, wondering who will take care of me now?

When the unthinkable happens--- when I am changed in that horrible moment from who I was into who I now must be, when by circumstance I am remade into someone new-- I am full of broken places and sharp edges and I am made suddenly immune to heat or cold, or hunger or sleep. And yet in that awful place of finality, in that place of no second chances, no do-overs, no one more I love you, no last goodbye ---in that dark place there is still a light. 

I know that grief is not simple—that it is not only ONE BIG THING that overwhelms, I know that it will be a million little things that will crack us wide open all over again, time after time. I know that we have a long journey ahead and there is probably a lot left to learn about this process. But in the dark, there is light, and I can see it.

We push back against the darkness with light—Christmas lights, candle lights-- the light shared with those we love; the light commemorating those we have lost.

“...Reach so far in your sharing that you hold the sun in one hand, the stars in the other, and no one between is hungry...” (“In Dark December,” by Ralph Murre)

The simple beauty of those words, the truth and hope in them, are a candle all their own, a reminder to “Be kinder than necessary, because everyone you meet is fighting some kind of battle”-JM Barry.

If I am sad at times, then I will be happy in between those times. Even on this journey of grief, of missing someone so dear to me, I will count my blessings and I will call them happiness. I will stitch together happiness out of little pieces of delightful memories until it becomes a whole cloth and I will wear it.

I am starting my happiness collection today. I will number my blessings as the stars are numbered. There are so many signs of kindness from so many people, so much concern and care. The spirit, the traditions, and the memories will live, even though the physical being no longer does.  There is love, all around me….It goes on.

Oh, My Mom...

~ Remembering Nova ~

Nova Elaine Leathers Mullins
April 29, 1930 - November 7, 2020

Nova was born amid the Great Depression, the youngest child of Iola Elenore (Jenkins) and John Carrol Leathers. She transitioned 90 years later during a world-wide pandemic. The thing that matters most about her was not the tale at the end, or even the story of her beginning—but how she lived her “dash.” 

Nova’s zest, her love for life, for learning and teaching, her absolutely unquenchable spirit—these are the things that make us smile when we remember her. The youngest of six Leathers children--brothers Ed Carroll, Robert, Neel, Shirl and her sister, Elizabeth “Sue” (Davis).

Nova spent her childhood in Bird City, Kansas, riding her bike to deliver the newspaper. She often had to pedal faster to keep her dog Sailor from scrapping with the other town dogs. When it was time to do chores, one would have to go find her, because she would be tucked away in some cozy nook quietly lost in a book. 

Nova was a born teacher. She taught in both Kansas and later in Washington. She was drawn to the Randle area because, while she appreciated the beauty of the Kansas prairie, she wanted to live between the mountains and the ocean. One of her second-grade students suggested that Miss Leathers should really meet her “Uncle Woody”, and eventually, Nova and Willis Mullins were married in February of 1960. They had two daughters, Sue Ann (Sume) and Wilma Jean (Smale). 

When Wilma started kindergarten, Nova returned to full-time teaching at the Packwood Elementary School. She taught fifth grade for many years and remains famous for her insistence that her students master their ‘times’ tables. It wasn’t unusual for student after student, class after class, to be able to successfully complete 100 multiplication problems in under a minute. She also taught second and third grade; Nova loved the opportunity to teach her young students the joys of reading. “Seven-year old’s”, she would often say, “are magical.” 

Besides her love for teaching, Nova’s faith was one of her defining attributes. Her faith was deep--- personal, immediate, and abiding. Every Sunday she would fill her car with kids—often making multiple trips insuring that everyone who needed a ride to Sunday School got one. While Nova would never be known for her ability to carry a tune, you would never question her enthusiasm for worship. She rejoiced in the Lord, in all His works, and was certainly a member of the “Make a Joyful Noise” choir if there ever was one.

After she retired from teaching, Nova became a passionate gardener, declaring a full-on war on dandelions. Woe be to the yellow weed that dared to show its face in her yard! During retirement she logged many miles walking her dogs, volunteering for the Soup & Bread Brigade, attending exercise classes, donating to her favorite charities, and feeding the birds.

Nova was consistent at successfully spoiling her grandchildren, Jordan, Devin and Cameron Sume. She cheered at every single one of their sporting events. Nova also has three great-grands: John Shane, age two; Aiden Allen, nine months; and coming in February, yet another boy! 

Even as Alzheimer’s began to steal her from us, she never lost her love of family, her passion for song, her flirty nature, and her desire to do things “Right.” Nova flourished under the loving care she received and spent her final weeks recovering from hip surgery at the home of her daughter Wilma in Yakima, Washington. 

We will miss Nova greatly, but we rejoice with glad hearts that she is no longer tethered to an earthly body with its many frailties. We know Heaven is much the better to have her in it. 

“Well done, thy good and faithful servant!”

 

Mood: Reflective

November is drawing to a close. Thanksgiving is behind us, the Christmas season before us. It’s a good time to sit next to the fire, a fuzzy bundle of blanket—or cat—in your lap. Cup your palms around the warm of your favorite mug; sip, savor, reflect, plan.

We are headed into the shortening of the light, day slipping into night at a faster rate. We push back against the darkness with light—Christmas lights, candlelights-- the light shared with those we love; the light commemorating those we have lost.

I have a favorite poem I Like to read this time of year, “In Dark December,” by Ralph Murre. Worth the Google, I promise. You can also find his work here: http://littleeaglereverse.blogspot.com. The poem begins simply “Whatever you believe, whatever you do not, there are sacred rite you must perform in dark December...” and goes on to encourage the coming together, the feasting and friendship between “...family and friends, cool cats and stray dogs alike...” and invites us to “...Reach so far in your sharing that you hold the sun in one hand, the stars in the other, and no one between is hungry...”

The simple beauty of those words, the truth and hope in them, are a candle all their own, a reminder to “Be kinder than necessary, because everyone you meet is fighting some kind of battle”-JM Barry.

Of course, this advice is better offered after one has braved the battle of Black Friday shopping, because those bargains aren’t going to find themselves. Cyber Monday has now been upgraded to Cyber Monday Week, because if we all battle on the interwebz at the same time, the whole thing can come crashing down. There is probably some sort of allegory there, but I have yet to divine it.

Back on the home front, I have some Christmas lights up and I am looking forward to getting my tree. This Christmas is not my First Worst, but it will be for some. I remind myself to be kinder; to hold the sun and stars and to light the in-between places; to build—not walls—but a bigger table, room for cool cats and stray dogs, alike.

Heavy Heart 2018

I find myself sitting in front of the key board and, once again, I don’t know quite what to say. The recent events in the news, the bombs mailed to an enemies list that included past Presidents, current members of Congress, and a news organization; a shooter who appeared to target only those whose skin contain more melanin than his, and shot and killed two African American grandparents who were grocery shopping; a gunman---spouting conspiracy theories and acting out hate-- entered a synagogue and ruthlessly murdered people at prayer; these acts are beyond imagining, let alone understanding. When the weapons of war are loosed on people at play, in our schools, at prayer; when human life is taken with such utter contempt---it’s easy to fall in to despair. It is easy to say that we live in a sick and twisted world, that things are rotten and getting worse, that the center cannot hold. And while it’s understandable to lose heart and despair, that statement is a Big Fat LIE.

Last October, I was trying to write a column about the Los Vegas Shooter, and I wrote “The world is not a sick and twisted place—that individual was. We don’t know his full story and I won’t use his name---but he is not who we are, his acts do not define Humanity. Humanity is beautiful.

Humanity shines in darkness. Humanity shows up to help. Humanity covers loved ones and strangers alike with their own bodies, a shield made not only of vulnerable flesh and bone but of indestructible, enduring Love. Humanity refuses to leave. Humanity stays with the fallen, giving first aid, carrying others to safety. Humanity lines up at two a.m. to give blood, stands in lines for hours to make that happen. Humanity weeps and mourns and comforts each other.”

It is October, a year later. It is easy to focus on the Darkness, the things that divide us; and when Darkness comes, it is too easy to consider the black and despair. But there is Light, and it destroys the darkness. You just need to look for it, to focus on the Light.

There is a tradition in the Jewish community of performing good works in memory of a lost love one instead of placing flowers. I invite you to fight the darkness by spreading kindness, by doing a good deed, by helping others. Make a point of doing something positive for someone else this week. Fight back against the darkness with Love.

Fred Rogers—Mr. Rogers--- famously said of disasters “When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news, my mother would say to me, ‘Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.’” And that is true. Humanity shows up to help. And that, my friends, is a beautiful, blessed thing. Be what is best about humanity—be a helper, give love, spread kindness.

Heavy Heart

It’s difficult to sit in front of a keyboard and not know quite what to say. The recent events in Las Vegas are beyond imagining, let alone understanding. When the weapons of war are loosed on people at play, when human life is taken with such utter contempt---it’s easy to fall into despair. It is easy to say that we live in a sick and twisted world, that things are rotten and getting worse, that the center cannot hold. And while it’s understandable to lose heart and despair, that statement is a Big Fat LIE.

The world is not a sick and twisted place—that individual was. We don’t know his full story and I won’t use his name---but he is not who we are; his acts do not define Humanity. Humanity is beautiful.

Humanity shines in darkness.

Humanity shows up to help.

Humanity covers loved ones and strangers alike with their own bodies, a shield made not only of vulnerable flesh and bone but of indestructible, enduring Love.

Humanity stays with the fallen, giving first aid, carrying others to safety. Humanity refuses to leave.

Humanity lines up at two a.m. to give blood, and stands in lines for hours to make that happen.

Humanity weeps and mourns and comforts each other.

When Darkness comes, it is too easy to consider the black and despair. But there is Light there, 

and it destroys the darkness. You just have to look.

Fred Rogers—Mr. Rogers--- famously said of disasters “When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news, my mother would say to me, ‘Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.’” 

And that is true. Humanity shows up to help. And that, my friends, is a beautiful, blessed thing.