Not Dead

I'm sure you thought I was. Or you forgot I had ever been alive.

But any dark thoughts you had mulling over my demise are mere fantasy. I'm alive, I had a great summer off, and I have plans for this year.

One plan, of course, is to keep blogging next summer, and not drop off the face of the earth again. But next summer is a long way off, and my focus is on the now.

So stay tuned. Much news will be coming your way, and the revamping I've done of my blog so far is only the beginning. I hope to catch up with all of you on your own blogs, so if you've missed me and want me to visit super soon, just leave me a nagging message below.

Enough

I never called you enough
For me
Never found enough time
For all the words I needed to give you
Or glean from you
Little treasures
To tuck into my pockets
And cherish later, when I was alone.

You gave me the glimpse of angels
Of God himself
Yet I have not filled myself enough with you
To cast away all doubt
To believe
To know
With all my heart
What you know all too well.

Yet we are out of time
I am out of chances
To share my little self with you.
And though I do not doubt
The place your sweetness leads you to
The joy I feel for your sake
Is not enough to heal my heart
Torn open by the loss of you.

Time falls too fast
And you must leave the world behind
Quietly
The same beautiful way you lived your life
And I must wait
Until I venture to the timeless lands myself
And you smile, and wave,
And sit down next to me.

Only then will I have enough
Of you.

God bless you on your journey, dearest Joyce.

Dealing with Death

I've heard it said that writers write to practice "the good ending," to go over what would make a satisfying conclusion to their own lives. And readers read the books/plays/poems/essays to practice their own endings, to define more clearly what they want their lives to be and how they wish them to finally turn out.

I'm not sure I'm convinced, but I do tend to rework elements in my life into novels and plays, trying to make sense of them or end them differently (resolving open issues or redoing mistakes or missed opportunities). Perhaps, though, I'm also practicing for my own death, not just my own life.

Death has been cropping up in my writing a lot lately. I'm revising (a.k.a. "rewriting," since that's what it always seems to end up being with me) a play about death. It's actually the second play about death I've written (or is it the fifth, now that I mentally go through my various plays?), but it differs from the previous one because no one in it is actually dead.

The death theme of this play, though, has turned ironic, and not in a good way. The premise is farcical, where a woman has to face an entire family that has decided she's close to death and might as well kick the bucket sometime soon. And until then, she needs to act like she's dying.

Morose, yes. Did I tell you it was a farce?

Strange, though, that my husband's grandmother died last weekend. And she was about the same age as my character. It was sudden, though not entirely unexpected, but we're all pretty devastated by it. Both of my children have been teary-eyed for the past few days, and my husband and I have kind of wandered around the house, uncertain what to do without her. She was a sweet lady, smart and funny and genuine. She gave love unconditionally. We'll all miss her.

But the guilt is awful. I feel as though I've been practicing her death.

Even worse, this same sweet grandmother is in one of my novels--the one I am slated to revise (a.k.a. "tear to shreds and nearly start over") once the play is revised. I had actually read a little of it before I found out about grandmother's death, and I realized that I'd changed her name from my previous 5-6 drafts of the novel. Right then I thought, no, I need her actual name in there, and changed it back. And then I found out she'd died.

Now I'm set even more on keeping her character in it. My husband thinks she'd like being in my novel. But her real death casts deeper shadows within the novel itself, and it will make revising more painful. It might help me work through my own regret and sadness, and help others work through the losses in their own lives, too.

I just hope Grandma Mae likes it once it's finished. She lived a good life, filled with love and family. And this novel might be the best way I can remember her, giving others a chance to know her when they read the book, even though they never met her.

Not Dead

It's only been 20 days, but it feels like forever since I've had Internet access!

In case you'd assumed my death, you were wrong. I am alive and painting pretty much every room in my new house, now that we've moved in. I'll share more once I clean the paint out of my hair a bit. I might even give you a few pictures!

Hope all of you are doing well. I'll be checking all of your blogs a.s.a.p., I promise!

Light a Candle, and Shine

I've been saying good-bye to a lot of things lately. Tomorrow my family and I take off for a new home and a new life a few thousand miles from where we've been living for the last four and a half years, and the good-byes have been multiplying as time has grown short.

But I have another good-bye to say, one I knew was coming, but one that hit me hard nonetheless. My beloved grandma Jeanne passed away yesterday. I don't know the details yet, but the details don't matter. Jeanne had been sick for a very long time, so I am happy that her suffering is over. I am also grieved, deeply grieved, and today I hope to be able to express why.

I have known Jeanne all my life. I called her Jeanne even as a kid, for the term "grandma" made her feel old. I was one of dozens of grandchildren in a very large extended family. It wasn't until I was fifteen, though, that I really "knew" Jeanne. I spent two weeks that summer with the Three Musketeers--Jeanne, Aunt Sue, and Aunt Leilali--and I believe that was the first time I felt unconditionally loved. Certainly, my older sister had always made it clear that she thought I was great, and even then we were close, but I was a shy child, and it was all too easy to be overlooked and ignored. I didn't really think I was much of anything. My little light burned inside me, but I couldn't really see it.

Jeanne--and my two aunts--saw my light from the moment I walked in the door. I wasn't just a teenager, or just a granddaughter or niece. I was a beautiful little candle, barely lit, but shining out just the same. Jeanne focused on that little light of mine and did all she could to encourage it. She bought me my first pair of glasses when she realized I was pretty much blind. She spent that week telling me how beautiful I looked with glasses. And I felt beautiful, perhaps more beautiful than I ever had before.

Another year she bought me fabric on Mother's Day, telling me, "Every girl should get a Mother's Day present. You'll be a mother some day." And she was right, for I did become a mother. She told me stories, encouraged me, listened to me, watched movies with me, and gave her smile to me over and over. She'd had a hard childhood--far harder than mine--but she smiled every day, and when she smiled the whole world lit up, warm and comforting and encouraging.

I visited Jeanne's house every summer for six years, and my flame grew and grew, glowing brighter with each year, with each word of encouragement. I held onto that flame through the rest of the year, as I hold onto it now, and I have learned to let it shine on my own. Now that she is gone, I know I can keep my flame alive, that I can be strong, that I will do well even if she is not here to encourage me.

But that is precisely why I grieve. Jeanne helped me so much, but I know there are so many out who need a Jeanne of their own--someone to make it clear they are loved and supported, someone to help their flame grow--and she cannot help them anymore.

And so the candle is passed. I have learned from a master, and it's time for me to take up the task in earnest. My two children need the same unconditional love from me, every single day. My students need it, too, as do my friends. The girl who bought my minivan yesterday needs it, so that she can complete her GED and support her three young children. My neighbors need it as they raise kids, work, and pursue their own goals. My new town will need it, so it's my job to keep my candle lit and use it to encourage the lights around me to glow as brightly as they can.

I can't promise to do it well. I've already made some huge mistakes. But it's my job, my task, and I am grateful that I had Jeanne to show me how it's done. Jeanne, the light of your candle will never die, for it lives in me now, as it does in every person you have touched.

I will love you forever.

The Scent of Lilacs

My lilacs are blooming. I'm sure that's later than it would be for many of you across the country (don't they bloom in February where you are, Stephanie?), but they are calling to me now, wafting through my windows from where I planted them last year in the backyard. So nice of the little plants to grow to twice their size, and then bloom in the most wonderful way. 

Reminds me of a poem, one of my favorites, written by Walt Whitman... "When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloomed." Here's a very short excerpt, from stanza seven:

(Nor for you, for one, alone;
Blossoms and branches green to coffins all I bring:
For fresh as the morning—thus would I carol a song for you, O sane and sacred death.
All over bouquets of roses,
O death! I cover you over with roses and early lilies;	50
But mostly and now the lilac that blooms the first,
Copious, I break, I break the sprigs from the bushes;
With loaded arms I come, pouring for you,
For you, and the coffins all of you, O death.)

The "coffin" being discussed is Lincoln's, yet though the poem deals with the death of a man Whitman revered, it's filled with the lushness of hope despite death, power to be found in the flowers, the beauty of the earth, used to remember the dead. And that is what life is, hope mingled with sadness, or hope despite sadness. The smell of lilac reminds me to notice the beauty in the world. 

Some days I really need that reminder. 

Go out and smell some flowers... and think of your own favorite flower poem (I also love Wordsworth's "I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud"). And if you hate poetry, let me know. I'll try to limit posts on it to one day a week (though that's always hard for me in spring).