Friday, September 26, 2014

The Curtain Must Close

Last Friday, I woke up feeling refreshed and happy. Just before waking up, I'd had the most beautiful dream. My old director was back in town(or maybe I was in Texas. Who knows?) I don't remember the play or the rest of the cast, but I remember her smiling, the kind of smile that comes when you're surrounded by your loved ones and know where you belong. It was a dream filled with such life and joy that I told my boy about it before work.

Of course, peace usually can't last. A few hours later, I received what I'm considering the worst Facebook message of my life: She was dead. And I say dead because it's the truth; "Passed away" or "gone" can't convey the hollow thud of "dead".

In only a moment, I could feel myself start to come apart at the seams. Here I was, at my work desk, in front of all these people, and I was about to dissolve. It can only be called serendipity that my boy had gotten a job in my department, and that the message came through when he was on break. I sought him out and immediately broke down(according to him, my words were unintelligible, and he thought I'd said "I need a doctor". To his credit, he jumped up as soon as he saw me, and sat with me for a bit while I composed myself despite his emotional constipation).

The news had been given to a few of us first, but soon spread across Facebook. Over and over, I saw people comment on how saddened they were to hear about this. I remained silent.

Messages were exchanged between the groups, about celebrations of life and such. I remained silent.

People sent me messages, both about her and about life in general. But in the face of death, I ignored death, and I remained silent.

I haven't been handling it well. There's been a lot of crying, first of all. Most of it was just before falling asleep, when I didn't have to keep it together anymore. He would hold me tightly and kiss my forehead, but it couldn't stop me until I was all cried out. I drank a lot over the weekend. My coworker took my shift Sunday, so I stayed in my pajamas and gave myself mild alcohol poisoning(not on purpose). Lots of video games, lots of scrolling mindlessly through internet sites. My dishes and laundry went undone, and we lived on takeout and Dollar General snacks.

And now, one week later, I'm writing this. I've broken my silence. But, I don't feel any sort of catharsis. It's not any better. I'm sad because she's gone, sad because I never visited her in Texas. I'm outright depressed that the next time a thunderstorm rolls in to Pflugerville, Tulip will be looking for her mommy and she won't be there. Her daughter has so much to still go through, and her son, and I don't know how they'll do it(emotionally or financially). Sad because the Peake Players are officially finished. Tired of aching.

There's a metric fuckton of people looking at me to plan a celebration of life. And I'm honored that everyone assumes that if something happens, it will come from me, but I don't want to. I want to stay at home and quietly stew in my misery until it's bearable. I'm going to, of course-her life should be celebrated, and we all need to come together again. Sometimes we are born with greatness, sometimes greatness is thrust upon us, etc.

The only comforting thing about all of this is the dream I'd had that Thursday night. I know enough about the world and life and death to know that I don't know anything. I can't accept that I felt such happiness and peace and remembered her smile as just a "dream". I felt her go, absolutely. It doesn't make me miss her any less, but at least she went in peace.

Monday, September 8, 2014

Advice from Grampa

“There are only two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle. The other is as though everything is a miracle.” -Albert Einstein.

I can't remember exactly what happened last week. Maybe I read it in a book, maybe I happened on it in my inner monologue, maybe it was all that and more combined. It was a sudden realization that everything on this Earth, every single thing, was the result of tiny little miracles, and that it was all infinitely beautiful.

The way the water glitters in the sun is beautiful, and the way Eskimos have so many words for snow is beautiful, and the way my hand fits right on his waist is beautiful, and how we've made hundreds of thousands of songs out of the same seven notes is beautiful, and the way smoke curls and moves is beautiful, and the millions of miraculous mysteries of the human body are beautiful, the fact that all I have to do for food is but an egg in hot water for twenty minutes is beautiful, and that I can write these words and the whole world can read them is beautiful, and combustion engines and garbage trucks and silt and trees and video games and theatre and blood and paper and metals and smoothies and diet soda and air and mountains and coffee and sleazy diners and comic books and riots and protests and suburbs and the varieties of human emotion and the evils that people choose to do(which are beautiful because it means that we can choose to be good and kind, that we have a choice-beauty that exists in the negative spaces is beauty, too) and relativity and colors and all the things we don't know, because there's beauty in the possibilities that we can't even comprehend yet.

And there's a definite beauty in the way just thinking about the miraculous things in the world, and all the miracles that happened to get us here, totally zens me out. I was angry, and now I've got nothing but inner peace.

There are only two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle. The other is as though everything is a miracle. - See more at: http://www.awakin.org/read/view.php?tid=255#sthash.m0qhMk2D.dpuf