Sunday, January 29, 2012

Mourning and how we live it.

 It would be  nice to think we aren't really gone when we go.

It's interesting to me how different cultures approach my grieving. I don't really mean "culture" so much as the microculture of the individual, however it is informed by their past, their beliefs, what they've learned or taught themselves.  There is of course, a general summary macroculture that identifiably differs among groups, or countries, or religions, and it does inform the beliefs of people who are raised in it. But it only serves as a foundation for what each person chooses to accept as part of their philosophy of mortality. And that philosophy, if you were able to really see it, is as different from person to person as fingerprints. One time when you see it most clearly, is when people speak to you of your own grief. It's easier for them to lay it out there when they think it will help you.

Everyone has a theory of mind, of course (what they think people think), but we all also each have a theory of soul, whether we recognize as that or not. A lot of what people tell me, when I'm mourning Jesse, is like prayer -- in the sense that it's something intimately theirs, that comforts them, that touches on their deepest sense of what life actually is, but buffers them from it, too. Like when one toddler sees another cry and hands him her teddy bear because it's what would make her feel better if she were crying.

 I don't think it really matters what anyone says, ultimately -- we feel what we feel. There really is no consolation for it, you just learn to accept it.

I like what Khalil Gibran said of children, that they  come through us but not from us. We are the bow, they are the arrow aimed at eternity. I tell my remaining son that he is my emissary to the future. But he is his own, even as his gestures, words and choices reflect something of me.

Tuesday, January 10, 2012

Here it comes

January 6th- that's when he told a friend he felt "paranoid" about a cut that wouldn't heal. If he'd gone to the doctor that day, he would most likely have survived. There are other days and events I know but won't disclose here, because other people's hearts are involved, but I feel these past events move through me physically,  displace me as they move the way a stone might sink through jelly. Events that, had they been slightly modified, if they'd happened a little earlier, or later, or differently, might have changed something. If someone had said or not said something. If he had let himself think about this or that, or stopped thinking about another thing.  So many small moments leading always to the same place, a dark, depressing hospital room that couldn't be helped.

Life takes everything from you, but  it's given you everything in the first place.