(it's funny what happens after my friday night yoga class) - this is the abbreviated version
in my dream, i went to what i thought was going to be seaside, oregon - i left my scooter (?) at a rental place that would hold it for me for 2 hrs at $20 - which i thought was exorbitant even in my dream (in this dream, i looked in my purse;i had no cellphone and no debit card - this is the definition of my feeling naked and vulnerable) - i went in and from here it got decidedly alice-in-wonderland. i started looking for my uncle sol and eleanor - could not find them. i tried to find a way OUT to the ocean - impossible to do - all the doors turned into corridors. i found a exhibition on the life of anne frank - i asked the OLD guy how long it would take for me to go thru the exhibit and he said, 32 minutes.
i looked outside, and in a field, i saw 3 fighter jets flying too low; the last caught a tip of the wing in the grass and broke apart, caught fire and burned to nothing .. in the hotel, some people looked out the windows, some did not; but i was sure, as were a few OLD guys near me, that the pilot had died, but no, a few windows down in this gigantic hotel, there he was, singed, but giving an interview.
at the end of this dream, i tried to find my way out of this place to get back to my scooter and i heard my mom's voice; i turned just in time to see her talking to a friend as they went into an elevator. mom. it wasn't until this part, right here, that i got that this was even a dream - it had all felt very real to me - but when i saw mom, i thought, oh yeah, she's dead; this must be a dream. and, again, i was comforted. comforted for her, of course. but also comforted a bit for me, also. i miss her so much, but if her heaven is a nice hotel with lots of places to smoke, then i am so very happy for her.
peace
christine
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Monday, January 26, 2009
my mind is back - -
and since my melt-down on friday, i have felt lighter in spirit. like kurt says, it was grief raising it's necessary head ... sure felt like shit, though, while it was going on. but it kind of felt like, and the simile/metaphor here is coarse, but the grieving felt like a really angry blister, painful, painful, but when it broke, there was relief. (i might be coming back to edit this into oblivion)
some people have said the breaking is what allows in the light and healing. but honestly, if it were up to me, and god knows i know it's not, i'd just sit this one out.
i was channel surfing and came upon one of the religious channels and this a-hat was going on about how people how are not comforted by the holy spirit, it's because those people are not sorry enough for their sins. and i think this is bullshit.
i always get similes and metaphors mixed up - from wikipedia:
"A simile is a figure of speech comparing two unlike things, often introduced with the word "like" or "as".[1] Even though similes and metaphors are both forms of comparison, similes allow the two ideas to remain distinct in spite of their similarities, whereas metaphors seek to equate two ideas despite their differences. For instance, a simile that compares a person with a bullet would go as follows: "John was a record-setting runner and as fast as a speeding bullet." A metaphor might read something like, "John was a record-setting runner. That speeding bullet could zip past you without you even knowing he was there."
anyway, i am better - i got tattooed up today - i'm turning into the "illustrated woman."
again, love and peace
christine
some people have said the breaking is what allows in the light and healing. but honestly, if it were up to me, and god knows i know it's not, i'd just sit this one out.
i was channel surfing and came upon one of the religious channels and this a-hat was going on about how people how are not comforted by the holy spirit, it's because those people are not sorry enough for their sins. and i think this is bullshit.
i always get similes and metaphors mixed up - from wikipedia:
"A simile is a figure of speech comparing two unlike things, often introduced with the word "like" or "as".[1] Even though similes and metaphors are both forms of comparison, similes allow the two ideas to remain distinct in spite of their similarities, whereas metaphors seek to equate two ideas despite their differences. For instance, a simile that compares a person with a bullet would go as follows: "John was a record-setting runner and as fast as a speeding bullet." A metaphor might read something like, "John was a record-setting runner. That speeding bullet could zip past you without you even knowing he was there."
anyway, i am better - i got tattooed up today - i'm turning into the "illustrated woman."
again, love and peace
christine
Friday, January 23, 2009
comfort - the mewling self-pitying post - the one i've been fighting
i am going to try to not get in my way here - i just came back from yoga - she asked for us to think of our intention for the class - and my mind was free;the word "comfort" came to me - and i fought tears for the next 1-1/2 hours - and now they're here making it difficult for me to see the monitor - this is the post that has been fighting in my gut - too kind to say out of my heart, but out of my stinking gut - no thought getting in the way here
comfort - i have been thinking of ways i could have been a kinder daughter to my mom in the months leading up to her death. i was abrupt with her in hawaii - we didn't fight but at times she was my impediment, my stone, my chain, the thing that made it so i wasn't having the time of my life in paradise - i told people that this vacation had turned out to be more of a working holiday for me. what a fucking ungrateful brat - i owed her comfort. did my voice, my actions betray this to my mother? she was a very smart woman and she did not say everything she thought; she tried all her life to have me be the same, but i never was so good at walling off what i felt. did she feel my impatience? i thought i hid it well .. but people who suck at this delude themselves into feeling they're masters at it. and this is what i fear - i was not a comfort to her until her final hours of life. i was a total ungrateful shit. i was in hawaii and wanting to be somewhere else - i wanted her to NOT SMOKE in my presence - what a fucking, self righteous prig i was. i wouldn't share her nightcap. i left it to the strangers to do this. what RIGHT did i have? well, i had no right and if i could take back this last year i would, in a heart beat, my heart beat. (these tears - they are scalding my cheeks - i wish they'd leave a permanent trace; stigmata).
her final hours - here we go-we're going to wallow deep in that pig shit - hang on
finally, did god/grace allow me to make up some of what ground i had lost?please god please god. i saw her in her emergency room bed - i had not laid eyes on her for about 10 days (another occasion for guilt; why had i not? i'll tell you why - too much into my own thing) and this is what i saw - a dying woman in that bed - my first thought - she looks like a cassidy, a dying woman, she looks like her dad, my papa (oh god oh god somebody else i ignored in his final months until hours before he died, the very night before he died - i hugged that man to my chest the night before he died;i can smell him even now). my lips on her brow, her lips cracked, her breath foul, her breast bone struggling to make it out of the skin that covered it. momma, momma. and this is how i comforted her - please god make it count
#1:her poor tailbone - there was just a sheet on top of hard plastic hospital bed - i found a blanket to put between her tailbone and that hard surface (this was loosened up in my yoga class; we have soft blankets for our comfort). i rocked her body to mine and the nurse slipped that blanket between her precious skin and painfully hard surface. her body weighed nothing against my own.
#2:her cracked lips - she was so thirsty (god your son knew this) and her lips were cracked. they have these swab things with moisture on them and i kept ripping open the packages and rubbing these things against her poor dried lips - she was so grateful for what little moisture she got from these swabs - and what did it matter;she'd be dead in hours - but it gave her comfort
#3; i kissed her brow and held her clawed hand - her hand was cold; i told her how i loved her. my son came in and the look on her face - i'll hold that look forever. please.
#4; i told her when she was being taken away to surgery that she would love anesthesia -i told her she would just fall into sleep and to just fall into it -momma did you just fall into it? - and that i would be there when she woke. she never awakened but i was there 7 minutes before she died - god gave me that grace if grace that was.
#5; i closed her dead eyes - they were open and clouded and dead;they did not close on their own - i had to hold them once, twice and then they stayed closed. momma momma it was so hard to leave you there - but i knew you were just the shell at that moment - "there's nothing sad about a shell" - what i loved was gone.
please all who read this pray for me, a sinner
christine
comfort - i have been thinking of ways i could have been a kinder daughter to my mom in the months leading up to her death. i was abrupt with her in hawaii - we didn't fight but at times she was my impediment, my stone, my chain, the thing that made it so i wasn't having the time of my life in paradise - i told people that this vacation had turned out to be more of a working holiday for me. what a fucking ungrateful brat - i owed her comfort. did my voice, my actions betray this to my mother? she was a very smart woman and she did not say everything she thought; she tried all her life to have me be the same, but i never was so good at walling off what i felt. did she feel my impatience? i thought i hid it well .. but people who suck at this delude themselves into feeling they're masters at it. and this is what i fear - i was not a comfort to her until her final hours of life. i was a total ungrateful shit. i was in hawaii and wanting to be somewhere else - i wanted her to NOT SMOKE in my presence - what a fucking, self righteous prig i was. i wouldn't share her nightcap. i left it to the strangers to do this. what RIGHT did i have? well, i had no right and if i could take back this last year i would, in a heart beat, my heart beat. (these tears - they are scalding my cheeks - i wish they'd leave a permanent trace; stigmata).
her final hours - here we go-we're going to wallow deep in that pig shit - hang on
finally, did god/grace allow me to make up some of what ground i had lost?please god please god. i saw her in her emergency room bed - i had not laid eyes on her for about 10 days (another occasion for guilt; why had i not? i'll tell you why - too much into my own thing) and this is what i saw - a dying woman in that bed - my first thought - she looks like a cassidy, a dying woman, she looks like her dad, my papa (oh god oh god somebody else i ignored in his final months until hours before he died, the very night before he died - i hugged that man to my chest the night before he died;i can smell him even now). my lips on her brow, her lips cracked, her breath foul, her breast bone struggling to make it out of the skin that covered it. momma, momma. and this is how i comforted her - please god make it count
#1:her poor tailbone - there was just a sheet on top of hard plastic hospital bed - i found a blanket to put between her tailbone and that hard surface (this was loosened up in my yoga class; we have soft blankets for our comfort). i rocked her body to mine and the nurse slipped that blanket between her precious skin and painfully hard surface. her body weighed nothing against my own.
#2:her cracked lips - she was so thirsty (god your son knew this) and her lips were cracked. they have these swab things with moisture on them and i kept ripping open the packages and rubbing these things against her poor dried lips - she was so grateful for what little moisture she got from these swabs - and what did it matter;she'd be dead in hours - but it gave her comfort
#3; i kissed her brow and held her clawed hand - her hand was cold; i told her how i loved her. my son came in and the look on her face - i'll hold that look forever. please.
#4; i told her when she was being taken away to surgery that she would love anesthesia -i told her she would just fall into sleep and to just fall into it -momma did you just fall into it? - and that i would be there when she woke. she never awakened but i was there 7 minutes before she died - god gave me that grace if grace that was.
#5; i closed her dead eyes - they were open and clouded and dead;they did not close on their own - i had to hold them once, twice and then they stayed closed. momma momma it was so hard to leave you there - but i knew you were just the shell at that moment - "there's nothing sad about a shell" - what i loved was gone.
please all who read this pray for me, a sinner
christine
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
my birthday - the first without my mom
i was anticipating that this would be difficult to get through - she once told me that on my birthdays, she thought of me all the day - i thought this was both sweet and over-much. but i got it when it was her birthday on january 3rd -i thought of her all day and it was like tip-toeing through a mine-field; one wrong step and BOOM i was back on the planet Grief.
yesterday was also the inauguration of barak obama. i don't know if that was a distraction, but thinking of my mom was actually a sweet sweet feeling - warmth through my veins. a feeling that she was "with" me and that it was going to be fine. that it would be just like this, predominantly so, in the future. i am still struck, like with a baseball bat, at how much i miss my mom - but it does, for the most part, seem more in my control.
do you see how measured and guarded i am about this hope? how i leave an out for when i need to weep? this time next year - this time last year - this is how i've been measuring out time. soon it will be this-time-last-year PLUS one day - 366 days - and then what? do these points of demarcation mean anything?
what i know is that at certain times i'll be sad for no reason i can readily identify; then i look at the calendar - on a cellular level, my body knows there's an anniversary headed my way and to batten down the hatches. as for memories of my mom, i don't ever want to forget these anniversaries. i cannot tell you the exact day or even what year i was divorced; january something. i was diagnosed with breast cancer spring 1994, but whether this was april or may, i'm not sure. but the DNA of my being knows the exact moment my mom died. i had her hand in my hand when i felt her go away from us. and as painful as that might be, it would be more painful if i were to ever forget.
peace and love
christine
yesterday was also the inauguration of barak obama. i don't know if that was a distraction, but thinking of my mom was actually a sweet sweet feeling - warmth through my veins. a feeling that she was "with" me and that it was going to be fine. that it would be just like this, predominantly so, in the future. i am still struck, like with a baseball bat, at how much i miss my mom - but it does, for the most part, seem more in my control.
do you see how measured and guarded i am about this hope? how i leave an out for when i need to weep? this time next year - this time last year - this is how i've been measuring out time. soon it will be this-time-last-year PLUS one day - 366 days - and then what? do these points of demarcation mean anything?
what i know is that at certain times i'll be sad for no reason i can readily identify; then i look at the calendar - on a cellular level, my body knows there's an anniversary headed my way and to batten down the hatches. as for memories of my mom, i don't ever want to forget these anniversaries. i cannot tell you the exact day or even what year i was divorced; january something. i was diagnosed with breast cancer spring 1994, but whether this was april or may, i'm not sure. but the DNA of my being knows the exact moment my mom died. i had her hand in my hand when i felt her go away from us. and as painful as that might be, it would be more painful if i were to ever forget.
peace and love
christine
Friday, January 16, 2009
yoga - beginner's mind
tonight i took a yoga class for the first time ever. it was in columbia city, where i spent just about every weekend growing up - my papa and grandma cassidy lived there -huge portions of my memory cells, all good as far as i could tell, were awakened when i parked my car and walked to the yoga studio - THERE is where papa would take me to eat burgers and he told me THAT was a jail; and if i didn't watch it, i'd end up behind those bars - papa called me bub because he thought christine was too prissy a name.
the yoga class - all cancer survivors & all dressed more appropriately than i. the instructor told me not to compare my form to theirs - too late - before the class even started, i was comparing & contrasting - and i saw that yoga clothes are NOT the same as running clothes - sports-specific clothing - my running pants wanted to roll DOWN (when running, you're not twisting your body into knots) and my tank top kept inching UP.
the class itself - the instructor said to dedicate it to some intention - and so i dedicated it to healing my heart - the instructor was so thoughtful and quiet. she took her time, but not too much, with each pose - my twitchy ferret brain actually slowed down; i could hear the breathing of the other women - the creaking of the floor in this old, old building - and instead of fighting the quiet place because i was scared it would take me to tears again, it gave my "screaming monkeys" a chance to just be still. be still and know that i am. quiet and stillness are not what i'm good at - chaos and motion are my special-tee. but the quiet and stillness were just what i needed at that moment - funny how that happens.
this is what they say at the end of class ..
namaste
christine
the yoga class - all cancer survivors & all dressed more appropriately than i. the instructor told me not to compare my form to theirs - too late - before the class even started, i was comparing & contrasting - and i saw that yoga clothes are NOT the same as running clothes - sports-specific clothing - my running pants wanted to roll DOWN (when running, you're not twisting your body into knots) and my tank top kept inching UP.
the class itself - the instructor said to dedicate it to some intention - and so i dedicated it to healing my heart - the instructor was so thoughtful and quiet. she took her time, but not too much, with each pose - my twitchy ferret brain actually slowed down; i could hear the breathing of the other women - the creaking of the floor in this old, old building - and instead of fighting the quiet place because i was scared it would take me to tears again, it gave my "screaming monkeys" a chance to just be still. be still and know that i am. quiet and stillness are not what i'm good at - chaos and motion are my special-tee. but the quiet and stillness were just what i needed at that moment - funny how that happens.
this is what they say at the end of class ..
namaste
christine
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
blog 101
this is a thought not fully cooked. and this is when i know i've not taken blog 101. do you think first, then post? or post any fool thing that pops in your head and then think on it - and be sorry for your first sorry-azz post. i don't know. i haven't taken blog 101.
but when i think about how complex we are, our emotions, wants, pains, just our way of making it through this world, it makes me want to just sit down - until i die. i am not a "why" thinker. there is no why -i've known this - there is no answer that will ever work for someone asking "why" to any BIG question of life. and if someone claims they can give you the answer, you be very suspicious and ask for their credentials. you'll find they've been photoshopped.
it is the constant change up between one thought/emotion and another that is wearying. every once in a while i get a glimpse of what my new life without my mom is going to look like. one moment, i see this is going to be okay, not MY idea of okay by any means, but i see the whole fabric of life, the duality, the "there's no love without it's flip side," all that stuff that works for most people most times. i see there's no sitting out this grief stuff; i am in the game. at other times i see the other side - life is appreciably less colorful without her; less love for me without her; less trust; less connection. and what is true for me has to be true for anyone else who has lost someone - there is a hole, a big sucking void - and there is no mom-relief-pitcher ready to fill it in.
one has to re-assemble the life. and this is not a passive thing. it never has been for me when i've had the rug pulled out from under my feet. do i have an appreciation for what i've lost and found again, for how many times i've pulled myself out of the pit and gone on? not until now. and again i have decisions to make - what do i do with this raw material that's been placed in my unwilling hands?
but when i think about how complex we are, our emotions, wants, pains, just our way of making it through this world, it makes me want to just sit down - until i die. i am not a "why" thinker. there is no why -i've known this - there is no answer that will ever work for someone asking "why" to any BIG question of life. and if someone claims they can give you the answer, you be very suspicious and ask for their credentials. you'll find they've been photoshopped.
it is the constant change up between one thought/emotion and another that is wearying. every once in a while i get a glimpse of what my new life without my mom is going to look like. one moment, i see this is going to be okay, not MY idea of okay by any means, but i see the whole fabric of life, the duality, the "there's no love without it's flip side," all that stuff that works for most people most times. i see there's no sitting out this grief stuff; i am in the game. at other times i see the other side - life is appreciably less colorful without her; less love for me without her; less trust; less connection. and what is true for me has to be true for anyone else who has lost someone - there is a hole, a big sucking void - and there is no mom-relief-pitcher ready to fill it in.
one has to re-assemble the life. and this is not a passive thing. it never has been for me when i've had the rug pulled out from under my feet. do i have an appreciation for what i've lost and found again, for how many times i've pulled myself out of the pit and gone on? not until now. and again i have decisions to make - what do i do with this raw material that's been placed in my unwilling hands?
Thursday, January 8, 2009
books
my dad is clearing stuff out of his house, bit by bit. this week it's books - pounds of books. he had many bags of books lining the stairs on the way out the door - and he said, look through them; keep what you want.
my dad is not a reader. my mom was the reader, and her mother was, and i am - and the books are from all of us. i see tons of books i got from "scholastic" while in school; i loved being the first to crack them open and smell that new book smell - big rush there. a lot of science fiction - isaac asimov, ray bradbury, arthur c clarke - i know they're mine -i've signed them with a daisy for the "i"s in my name. my grandmother cassidy's books - heavy books, serious books about serious women - Kristin Lavransdatter - books without pictures - not my first choice as a kid.
and my mom's books - english history, murder mysteries, biographies, harry potter, true crime - and Virgil - The Aeneid. She took latin in high school and this is her latin primer - i held the book in my hand, as she would have held the book; the spine in my palm - when i opened the book i saw pencil marks and notes written in her 17-year-old hand - mom - tactile memory? when i open the other books, her ghost smell comes off the pages - dryer sheets, cigarette smoke and her perfume. friends have mentioned that i'm not too attached to stuff - but i tell you, if this place were to burn down, her books would be saved by me.
love,
christine
my dad is not a reader. my mom was the reader, and her mother was, and i am - and the books are from all of us. i see tons of books i got from "scholastic" while in school; i loved being the first to crack them open and smell that new book smell - big rush there. a lot of science fiction - isaac asimov, ray bradbury, arthur c clarke - i know they're mine -i've signed them with a daisy for the "i"s in my name. my grandmother cassidy's books - heavy books, serious books about serious women - Kristin Lavransdatter - books without pictures - not my first choice as a kid.
and my mom's books - english history, murder mysteries, biographies, harry potter, true crime - and Virgil - The Aeneid. She took latin in high school and this is her latin primer - i held the book in my hand, as she would have held the book; the spine in my palm - when i opened the book i saw pencil marks and notes written in her 17-year-old hand - mom - tactile memory? when i open the other books, her ghost smell comes off the pages - dryer sheets, cigarette smoke and her perfume. friends have mentioned that i'm not too attached to stuff - but i tell you, if this place were to burn down, her books would be saved by me.
love,
christine
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