Web & Dew: The Space Between, BlackBerry Shots, July 2010, photo © 2011 by QuoinMonkey. All rights reserved.
Over 90 inches of snow have disappeared from our lawn in temperatures that reach the 50’s by day, drop down to freezing at night. Winter is dying a slow death. Seasons change, transitions in temperament and landscape. The snowmelt runs into rivers and streams, the salt leaves potholes. But soon, tiny shoots of emerald will erupt through the dank, dead, chestnut grass. Winter must die to usher in Spring.
There is power in recognizing impending death. I remember the year my mother told me that when her time came, she was ready to die. We were visiting the South, walking down the cemetery hill from my grandmother’s grave in Georgia. I burst out crying; she hugged me and held me close. I thought the tears inside would never stop. “Honey, don’t worry,” she said. “I’m ready.”
Last year, my brother nearly died, before receiving a liver transplant at the 11th hour. It’s an experience that pulled our family together, one we share with countless others. If a person who loses their spouse is a widow, what’s the name for a child who loses a parent? Or a parent who loses a child? There should be a formal naming. For children, it should not be the word “orphan.” That implies that you never held the person close, lived with or loved your parent. There should be another word.
I think of what it must be like to be the one left behind. When I saw writer Joyce Carol Oates in Minneapolis at Talk of the Stacks last week, I bought her new memoir, A Widow’s Story. Her husband Raymond died unexpectedly late one winter night in 2008; the next morning Joyce was supposed to have gone to the hospital, picked him up, and brought him home to recover. It’s the story of loss, grief, and pain; of giant gift baskets, grieving cats, and mounds of trash; of how no one really understood. Yet in the end, she realized that everyone understood. Because Death is a universal experience. It’s just that we don’t talk about it anymore or know how to incorporate it into our lives.
There is more to Death than the loss of loved ones. Sometimes whole cultures die, like the Anasazi who inhabited the Four Corners country of southern Utah, southwestern Colorado, northwestern New Mexico, and northern Arizona from about A.D. 200 to A.D. 1300, and then disappeared. Cultural traditions die, too, like Porky’s Drive-In in St. Paul. It was owned by the same family since 1953, and closed its doors last Sunday, April 3rd, 2011. Animals die, and it is certain that we will probably outlive many of our beloved pets (our cat Chaco died a few years ago, June 25th, 2009).
Groups we are in community with have life spans, too. Circles of intimacy change and grow; sometimes we end up leaving people behind. Or they leave us. During one session of a year-long Intensive with Natalie Goldberg, one of the participants was killed in a car crash. The group was stunned. These were people we thought we would sit and write with for an entire year. It was not to be. I remember we chanted the Heart Sutra. I remember finding comfort in the ritual.
Ah, I feel a heaviness this Spring. But it’s a collective heaviness. Like something is shifting in the Universe. There’s too much going on in the world, too many catastrophes, too many unexpected deaths, too many aging and dying people, too many widows and widowers, for there not to be something going on at the Spiritual level. But that’s just my belief. I know there are people who say this occurred at every period in history. But there are certain paradigm shifts that happen and change the planet as a whole. We can either learn our lessons and get on board the train that moves forward. Or stay stuck in the past, not doing the work that’s required of us.
It’s the New Moon. New beginnings. There is value in what has come before, in the history we have with other people we were close to at one time. It’s good to honor and remember. All of that follows us, and I believe we transform it. All energy is creative energy. Even the energy of Death. It cycles back around into new life. Death can be a release of suffering. It also creates a giant abyss of loss. Maybe we’d be wise to befriend the Grim Reaper. Maybe it is others who are dying or have passed over who teach us the courage and strength to face our own death. Maybe the space between death and dying…is life.
_______________________
Though many of our ancestors accepted and honored the process of Death through rituals, sitting, slowing down, it feels like our fast-paced modern world doesn’t know how to stop moving, how to have a conversation about death and dying, or where to put it in the flow of our day-to-day lives. It makes for a good Writing Topic, a good topic for discussion on red Ravine. Why can’t we talk face to face about death? Maybe it’s easier to write about it.
Take out a fast writing pen and notebook, or fire up your computer and write Death & Dying at the top of your page. Then 15 minutes, Go! Or do a Writing Practice on everything you know about any aspect of death and dying. Please feel free to share any insights in the comments below.
-posted on red Ravine, Tuesday, April 5th, 2011. Parts of the piece were taken from several Writing Practices written last weekend, April 2nd & 3rd.
-related to posts: WRITING TOPIC — 3 QUESTIONS, Reflection — Through The Looking Glass, Make Positive Effort For The Good, The Uses Of Sorrow — What Is It About Obituaries?, Reading The Obits, and a great interview with Joyce Carol Oates on MPR Midmorning with Kerri Miller – A Widow’s Story — The Story Of Joyce Carol Oates
I just heard this quote in an on-line discussion and thought it fit your topic perfectly.
Death is like taking off a tight shoe.” (Emmanuel, ‘Emmanuel’s Book’)
I certainly hope it feels like this!
Great image to juxtapose with Death and Dying. It made me pause for a moment and think that it could be a beautiful thing, rather than something to dread or be worried about.
Still, it is hard to accept and flow with it, even though it is part of the natural cycle. I liked your comment about the energy of death, how it flows back into life. It is transformation. However, it is one thing to think this and appreciate the idea, but it is completely different to know it and feel it from the depth of your being. I find myself going through periods of hating loss and death and feeling betrayed by life. And then usually when enough distance has passed, I begin to appreciate what new energy death has brought into the present. I hope with each passing year I will come to trust more in all aspects of life without so much resistance.
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I can’t believe it, but I talked to Liz late in the afternoon and a good friend of hers from college died last night. He was only 46. Liz has had quite a few tears today, and has reached out to many, many people in their network of friends. Some have written on Facebook and connected that way; news travels quickly. Just a minute ago, she was showing me photos on his Facebook page, photos of his wedding to his partner in San Francisco. They had been together over 20 years, and had just gone down to California a few years ago to get married (while it was still legal).
So sad. You just don’t know how long you will have with friends and family. It spurs a discussion that Liz and I were having a few nights ago after seeing Joyce Carol Oates. We were talking about what happens when a partner of a same sex marriage or partnership dies — they are widows, too. But only close friends may recognize that. It’s not recognized or honored by the greater society at large. Maybe because this couple was legally married, they will have a fighting chance of the same rights that heterosexual couples have when a spouse dies. When Joyce Carol Oates was talking about Social Security, all the things she had to take care of so that she received the assets of her husband after he died, Liz and I just looked at each other. For same sex couples, it’s a whole other ballgame. But aside from the financial rights, which are important, it’s the grief. How often it turns out like the movie A Single Man. Where the partner has to grieve alone. My prayers go out to her friend tonight, who has lost his Soul Mate. The memorial will be Saturday.
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Teresa, what a wonderful quote. I remember Emmanuel’s Book. I think my mother got it for me one Christmas. I had never heard anyone else mention it. I hope it feels like that, too, like taking off a tight shoe.
This struck me about your comment:
I liked your comment about the energy of death, how it flows back into life. It is transformation. However, it is one thing to think this and appreciate the idea, but it is completely different to know it and feel it from the depth of your being.
That is so true. Knowing something in the head, and coming to it with the heart and soul are two very different things. I hope I didn’t come off as thinking that I knew anything at all about Death in this piece. I hope it didn’t seem unfeeling. It was only me trying to make sense of all the death and dying and suffering that appears to be all around right now. And I know, if I was in the middle of the experience, it would be a completely different thing. You are right, it’s only with distance that the positive parts can be experienced. Joyce Carol Oates was talking about that, too. She can now read parts of the book and find humor there. But at the time, she really thought she was going to die without Raymond.
The quote from the outside book sleeve of A Widow’s Story:
Of the widow’s countless death-duties there is really just one that matters: on the first anniversary of her husband’s death the widow should think ‘I kept myself alive.’
It was really difficult last year when we thought my brother was going to die. He called one day and asked if I would fly home to see him. Then I knew how bad it was. I got a plane ticket the next day and flew home. Over the next few days, we visited a pastor, talked about his wishes, his children, what he wanted on his gravestone, and at his Memorial. Then one day, he asked the family to come for dinner and we sat around the table afterwards and he told everyone what he wanted after he died. It was the hardest thing I’ve ever seen, and the most tender at the same time. It was both, and everyone had to hold both in their hearts because we all knew that he might not make it. I will never forget that visit with him, or that night with the family members that were there. I am sure there are countless stories of how people prepare for death, grieve, and heal. It seems so important for people to tell their stories.
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When I read your list of other kinds of death beside the physical kind, you helped me to name something that has been confusing and bothering to me. Facebook.
I have a facebook account which I enjoy, but am often tracked down by people from decades ago. Sometimes it’s fun; often it’s not. There was a reason friendships and acquaintances died out, and usually I don’t want to resurrect them. Most of these people I don’t “friend,” though maybe I’ll send them a message. It’s awkward. People often seem hot to have internet friendships. It doesn’t interest me.
I still have friends I met in kindergarten. I love old friends. Does anyone know what I’m talking about?
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QM,
I just read an atricle in the paper today of how archaeologists have discovered the first stoneage ‘gay’ man. The skeleton of this neolithic man was unearthed during excavations in the Czech Republic (Marija Gimbutas’ country…) and is said to date back to between 2900 and 2500 BC. According to the archaeologists, the way he was buried suggests that he was of different sexual persuasion. This was because men of this period were traditionally buried lying on their right side with their head pointing to the west; women were buried lying on their left side with their head facing east – he was buried as a female and had none of the expected male weapons, food etc they would have expected to find. Instead, he was found surrounded with artifacts usually interred with females, including an oval, egg shaped container only associated with female burials.
What struck me as being both wonderful and poignant about this article was that the archaeologists did not believe it was a mistake or coincidence that he was buried this way. The ancients attached great importance to funerals during this period and it can only show that he was buried in honor and acceptance of who he was. Modern societies and cultures could learn a lot from them…
QM, I also wanted to let you know that I’m off tomorrow to do a course on Thanka painting at Samye Ling (4 days – I’m so excited!) I just wanted to thank you and the many people at red Ravine who have given me the inspiration and confidence to do it.
Also, could you please give my regards to Liz at this sad time.
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Oh, just in case it came across that the ancients thought the man to be female, they didn’t. The archaeologists regarded the find as being a ‘third gender grave’.
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QuionMonkey,
You never come across as unfeeling. I was only commenting on this as it is something I’m always thinking about and at times struggling with….how to integrate knowledge, truth, wisdom, etc. from an intellectual place to a heart/soul understanding. I guess it usually comes in time and it is part of a multi-stage process. If we live a long time, maybe that is something old age will allow us to experience this deeper type of knowing and wisdom.
Those words from Joyce Carol Oates, “I kept myself alive” are profound. When I have experienced major losses in my life, this has certaintly felt like a big achievement, just waking up and showing up for the smallest of things can be an enormous undertaking. A good friend of mine died this year in a climbing accident. His wife is now a widow at age 47 or so. I think of her everyday and what this must feel like. I try to keep it in mind when I am being a jerk to my husband or friend or anyone I care about. It’s amazing we continue to become attached to anything given what we know about life and death. And yet, thank god we do.
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This is a tough topic at any time, QM, but for me especially raw these days. I am writing about death and dying almost every time I sit down to write, I find.
I would love to read Carol Oates’ memoir and will pick it up. I’m also reminded of an autobiography we both read at the same time, I think, which is Joan Didion’s The Year of Magical Thinking.
I think of how so much of the powerful writing I’ve read is about letting go, about death of innocence, death of a certain epoch in one’s life, death of old roles. And yes, how sometimes you never want to resurrect those eras. But also the gap these deaths create.
Ah, a difficult topic. Difficult at any time but especially these days.
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p..s., I wanted to tell you how much I LOVE your top photo of the dew on the cobweb. I studied it for a long time before reading the text.
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Sinclair, you bring up a really good point about Facebook. I never thought of it that way, but once you mentioned it, I had to make a mental list and see if that was true for me. I have mostly had fun reconnecting with people from the past. Sometimes there is a little flurry of activity in the reconnection, then it dies down. I may have had one or two reconnections where the friendship may have ended awkwardly in the past, and then, there we are, all these years later, connecting on Facebook. Most times, I have let go of whatever was in the past. But there were a few times where it just seemed a bit odd never to have talked through anything that happened, yet we’re connecting on Facebook. I do wonder about that aspect sometimes. But I haven’t had anyone look me up that seemed way out of kilter.
I’m going to think about what you’re saying a little more. One thing I do like about Internet conversations is that on a place like red Ravine, they move more slowly than talking to someone. I like the slowness of that. But on Twitter, forget about it. It’s fast paced soundbites. On Facebook, it’s kind of between spaces. One thing I noticed about FB though, Twitter, too, is that the conversations just never get that deep. We can get deep on this space if we want, maybe more so than face to face sometimes. But it’s true — there’s nothing like physically being in the same room with someone, seeing their face, body language. Have to think about it more.
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annie, you always have the most interesting comments. You are very well read. I wish I could read that article on the first stoneage gay man. That would be fascinating. I like how they seemed to have honored him in death by letting his difference be okay and not threatening. What I would give to go back in time and see what that was like, how we were treated in the past. I have read a few articles about how gays were treated in some Native American cultures. Similar to what you are saying — treated with respect, honored for their differences.
I hope you have a wondering time at your painting class! And thank you, for your gracious comment about the readers on red Ravine. Makes my day.
You are kind to say that to Liz. I just told her what you said and she said, “Oh, annie. That’s so sweet.” A friend of hers just called and they talked about her friend’s passing. There was a write-up in the paper because he did a lot of service work for the community, a really kind and giving person. I just can’t figure out why people’s lives get cut short. We’ll be going to the Memorial on Saturday. I’ll let you know how it goes. I guess I’ll be meeting some of Liz’s old college buddies. Memorials and funerals do bring people together who may not have seen each other in years. It’s an odd thing that way. A connecting time.
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Teresa, I am so sorry about your friend who died in the climbing accident. That is sad and I can’t imagine what his wife is going through. When people die unexpectedly, there is no time to prepare. Seems stunning to me. It’s an interesting question about why we continue to become attached, to allow ourselves to love over and over again after big losses. I guess we can’t help ourselves. It’s got to be the love.
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Roma, I had forgotten about The Year of Magical Thinking. Another elegant handling of a difficult topic. I’m glad writers and artists tackle these tough subjects in their books. It inspires me. I know what you mean about the death of something you might not want to resurrect. It’s kind of what Sinclair was talking about, too, reconnecting with people on FB, some that are relationships that might not need to be resurrected. I think one of the most difficult things for me to learn, especially in my youth, was when to let go and walk away. It can be a fine line. And sometimes when I stuck things out, they deepened and became richer. Other times, nothing made it work. It really is a difficult topic. I’ll be curious to know what you think of the Joyce Carol Oates book. Let me know. I’m just a short ways into it.
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Roma, forgot to mention, thanks about the photo. I was going back through unpublished images from the BlackBerry 365 year (well, I guess that was last year). I actually had chosen a different photo from the same series for BlackBerry 365 that day. But when I went back through the images last night, I really liked this one better. I wonder if that’s going to happen a lot when I go to print the BlackBerry year series for Art-A-Whirl? I guess it would have been subjective for that day — which photo do I publish, I would ask myself. And I would also look at the whole year for variety, not just one day. I’m processing now. 8)
Anyway, it felt like a transition photo. And if you would have seen the actual spider webs, you’d be amazed. They were deep down in a patch of grass on the front lawn. I had to get way down and kind of bury the BlackBerry in the grass. I wouldn’t always know what I was capturing. In this one, I like the blur of the blades of grass, the way the beaded web forms in the distance, those blue light lens flares in the bottom right. Tiny beads on a tiny spider web look so HUGE. Felt like it covered one aspect of Death. Thank you for commenting on the image.
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Why is it that during a time of year when the earth bursts forth with all the flowers and blossoms and fresh green grass our thoughts turn to death and dying? Is it our age or our growing experience with the death of those we loved?
I sat down the day this topic was posted and wrote two 15-minute pieces as instructed. They both reminded me of all the people I know in my life who have died and that their death wasn’t as bad an experience for me as the suffering they underwent before they died.
As hard and devastating as sudden deaths have been, the long drawn out deaths chipped away at my heart until, when the person died, I found I had grieved for years and had no more grief to show. I felt a weird joy that they would not suffer anymore, ever.
The topic brought so much up for me to think about.
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[…] the top by the end of the day on Sunday. For me, her free verse relates to the current red Ravine Writing Topic — Death & Dying. Though we work independently, one in Texas, the other in Minnesota, over the course of our yearly […]
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Bob, that’s a good question. Why do we think of death and dying in Spring? When I first started writing this Topic piece, it was still kind of dark and gray and nothing green had sprouted yet. There were old snowbanks, blackened with road salt and grit, bare trees, and huge potholes. It was kind of the space between Winter and Spring. Here in Minnesota, that place doesn’t last very long. Yesterday, everything started to sprout, the snow was gone, the hibernating songbirds are back, the sun was out and it felt like Spring. The Death of Old Man Winter is complete for me as of yesterday. Spring has arrived!
For me, those in-between places can feel hard but transformative. Maybe that’s why we notice Death this time of year. The transition to Spring is so alive for those of us that live in harsh Winter climates. I’m intriqued by what you noticed about your Writing Practices about death and dying. The suffering that loved ones go through before they die…how that was harder on you. That seems like the in-between place, too, the transitional space. I have been thinking so much about death and dying the last few weeks, too, that I just had to make it a Writing Topic. I wondered about posting it because it seems like a hard subject and I didn’t know if people would want to write about it. I felt better when you said you had done the Writing Practices. Because I’ve been writing a lot about it, too, in my own practices. I’ll be looking for Practices to post with mine later on. I’m hoping there are a few others that might join me. I did get a submission about this Topic as well that I’d like to post coming up.
This morning I’ve been thinking about the letter I wrote to my biological father whom I have not seen since I was 6. He’s got cancer and I don’t know how long he has to live. I feel better knowing that I reached out to him, even if I never hear back. Because of my aunts, I will know when he dies. It’s so strange to think about. All the connections we have over a lifetime, and how they all play out. It’s never what we expect.
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Dear QM – This is a beautiful and thoughtful post. I read it before there were any comments, but my emotions were still to raw to respond. Another dear one from the 2006 intensive is living the end of her life now with untreatable ovarian cancer. She had an oh-so-brief remission with chemotherapy, but now it is back with a vengeance. You will remember her for her beautiful writing about the land she lives on. And she will continue with that land, for even death will not separate her from it.
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This just in from Knopf Poetry’s “Poem a Day” in honor of National Poetry Month. It seems to belong here, too.
A Letter from Emily Dickinson:
To Louise and Frances Norcross, November, 1882
Dear Cousins,
I hoped to write you before, but mother’s dying almost stunned my spirit.
I have answered a few inquiries of love, but written little intuitively. She was scarcely the aunt you knew. The great mission of pain had been ratified—cultivated to tenderness by persistent sorrow, so that a larger mother died than had she died before. There was no earthly parting. She slipped from our fingers like a flake gathered by the wind, and is now part of the drift called “the infinite.”
We don’t know where she is, though so many tell us.
I believe we shall in some manner be cherished by our Maker—that the One who gave us this remarkable earth has the power to surprise that which He has caused. Beyond that all is silence…
Mother was very beautiful when she had died. Seraphs are solemn artists. The illumination that comes but once paused upon her features, and it seemed like hiding a picture to lay her in the grave; but the grass that received my father will suffice his guest, the one he asked at the altar to visit him all his life.
I cannot tell how Eternity seems. It sweeps around me like a sea…Thank you for remembering me. Remembrance—mighty word.
“Though gavest it to me from the foundation of the world.”
Lovingly,
Emily
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breathepeace,
Thank-you for posting this letter of Emily’s. I really like her take on the afterlife…clearly lots of people were giving her a firm answer as to where her mother had landed after she died.
I’ve stood in the graveyard where Emily’s mother (and all the Dickinsons) rest. It’s a very old and peaceful spot on this earth.
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[…] 14. I took three lines from her poem The Yogi, free verse that fit in synchrony with the current Writing Topic on Death & Dying. I continue to use our collaboration as a platform to explore creating mandalas and learning more […]
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breathepeace, I feel so sad to hear that. I am thinking a lot about the Intensive group these days, in touch with some, not all, trying to hold all the changes. What you say about the land is moving. In the wind blowing across the Earth. There. I appreciate you stopping by and leaving your kind words. I am glad you are there with your kind and loving heart. Thank you for the Emily Dickinson letter, too. If I had to choose from Emily’s words, I’d choose these: I cannot tell how Eternity seems. It sweeps around me like a sea…Beyond that all is silence…Thank you for remembering me.
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Teri, I love those photos of Emily Dickinson’s house and the cemetery gate to the plot where her family is buried. I’m going to post the link of your piece here for others who may want to view: Emily’s Freedom (LINK).
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[…] of times since my dad died. It gives me permission to set down the pressure to do something about death. I’ve committed May Sarton’s “Now I Become Myself” to memory, saying it over and over as I […]
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[…] to posts: WRITING TOPIC — DEATH & DYING, Does Poetry Matter?, and Tortoise […]
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I was just reviewing comments on this email, an address I have separately from my daily correspondence, and am always amazed to find the gift of all the writing posts. When I scrolled down and saw, April 5-Death and Dying, my heart jumped. My daughter took her life on April 5 last year, the day after Easter–she was 24. My mother-in-law, in her nineties, died April 23, the day before Easter this year after surviving a debilitating stroke over ten years ago.
I imagine Easter and dying are so closely connected because of some beliefs that it’s a time of triumph over death, a realization that there is a rebirth of a spritual, eternal life after our temporary physical lives.
Didion’s book was amazing, the depth of feeling, the detail. She had also lost her daughter. I just completed one by Jeremy Page, Sea Change: A Novel. Quite remarkable as well.
The final scenes of “Steel Magnolias” says it best. I’ve lived in fear of losing my children ever since my two-year-old (now 28) was diagnosed with Type I diabetes. When I became a mother, I was lost in keeping them safe and loved. Even when the girls were older, they would watch that movie, and their favorite part was at the Easter hunt in the end. I remember being riveted by Sally Field’s speech at her daughter’s gravesite. I agonized with that performance on a regular basis. Perhaps I thought by watching these things, they’d go past me. What I came to find out, which I knew at the time I first saw it, was that is how it must feel. That is exactly how it feels.
This morning as I returned from taking my youngest daughter to school, I was suddenly overcome with the thought of Annie and how much I miss touching her, seeing her, feeling her softness, her warmth…a physical addition. I’m not sure what the trigger was–just something. I was listening to Adele singing “Take it All” and Wynona’s, “Is it Over Yet.”
Some have mentioned moving on…some will say, after the first year, it will be easier; I understand the kind intentions. My heart says, “but then I have to get through one year and one day, one year and two days…”. There will, for the rest of my life, be a first to endure regarding the loss of my girl. My girls were all the love I ever searched for before having them in my life. I gave birth to my own love. I can’t imagine a more perfect eternity than being with them for the rest of time.
LT
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Gifts
(For Margaret
April, 2011)
if there are jewels in my crown
it is because you put them there
over the many years
one by one
they may be sapphires and topaz
rubies or pearls or something so rare
yet unnamed
they may be set in the purest gold
but none shine more brightly
more richly
than those with which you placed them
beauty
patience
grace
hope
love
Linda Phillips Thune
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Linda, thank you for sharing your experiences with death and dying. So much loss and grief, so close to the bone. And the date — April 5th — I am at a loss for words. I appreciate your candor and grace about a difficult topic. Maybe you are right about this time of year and the idea of rebirth. Your comment makes me want to watch Steel Magnolias again. I was noticing on Easter Sunday that the world felt lighter to me, for just that one day. Maybe the light, maybe the notion of rebirth, shared by many, not by all. But Spring is a notion that is universal. I have been less serious since I first posted this Writing Topic. But I’m aware that I still have to do my Writing Practice on it and post it here on red Ravine. Perhaps my thoughts will be different than the body of this post. Though tonight I feel tired and heavy. I watched the news with all the death and destruction after the tonados in the South. There is no sense to be made of it all. Yet my mind keeps wanting to put some kind of order to it. Grief just doesn’t work that way.
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Going to see Janis Ian tomorrow night at the Fitzgerald. I’m listening to Billie’s Bones on her website. She writes about death in When I Lay Down. You can listen at this link: Janis Ian – Billie’s Bones (LINK) [Also a cool timeline of the making of Billie’s Bones (LINK)]
There was an MPR interview this morning where Janis Ian talked about a realization she had when she thought she was sick and didn’t have long to live. Janis Ian Interview on MPR with Kerri Miller – 4/28/11 (LINK)
I dreamed my life was over
and they laid me in my grave
I was frightened of forever
and the price I’d have to pay
And I thought that God would hate me
’cause I’d lived my life in sin,
but I felt the truth embrace me
as heaven let me in
And when I lay down
I lay down
and cried
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You’re so right, QM. Especially so soon after the earthquake in Japan…I suppose one gift of loss, of losing a child, is that feeling of having survived the unsurvivable. There’s much less fear of dying…if any, even. Faith is greater, not lessened.
LT
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PS Thanks for the song…I’m going to add it to my music library…and maybe cry a little…
LT
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Hello Linda,
I just wanted to let you know how much I always find your comments so brave and moving. Maybe it’s because our daughters are around the same age and I’m able to empathize with your sorrow – just as I, like you, identified with Sally Feilds’ moving performance in Steel Magnolias. And it’s so true when she says that it’s not supposed to happen that way, children dying before their parents…
I heard this quote on the radio the other day; Life is not measured by the amount of breaths we take, but by the amount our breaths have been taken away. I hope Annie had lots of experiences when her breath had been taken away.
As promised, I went to Samye Ling in February and tied two ribbons to the ‘clootie tree’ – one for my mum and one for your Annie. My mum’s ribbon is white with red polka dots and Annie’s is red with white hearts. When I went back in April, they were still there, fluttering away in the spring breeze – they made me smile. I took a couple of photographs (not very good ones, I’m afraid) and if you email me at annieoakcake@hotmail.co.uk, I’ll gladly send them to you.
Every time I visit my mum, I witness her slowly fading away. Dementia means ‘without mind’ and it breaks my heart to watch her personality slowly dying, it’s such a long goodbye. A few months ago, my beloved aunt was also diagnosed with this terrible disease – I feel like I’m losing all my Steel Magnolias…
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[…] -related to Topic post: WRITING TOPIC — DEATH & DYING […]
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[…] WRITING TOPIC — DEATH & DYING is the latest Writing Topic on red Ravine. Frequent guest writer Bob Chrisman joined QuoinMonkey in […]
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[…] WRITING TOPIC — DEATH & DYING is the latest Writing Topic on red Ravine. Frequent guest writer Teri Blair joined QuoinMonkey in […]
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[…] WRITING TOPIC — DEATH & DYING is the latest Writing Topic on red Ravine. Frequent guest writer Judith Ford joined QuoinMonkey in […]
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It’s wild. Our Writing Practices on Death & Dying ended up linked to a whole Huffington Post page on Death & Dying. The links are at the very bottom of the Living section – Huffington Post: Death & Dying (LINK).
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Suh-weet.
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[…] to posts: WRITING TOPIC — DEATH & DYING, PRACTICE – Memorial Day – 10min, PRACTICE: Memorial Day — 10min, May Day Self-Portrait: […]
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[…] and LED. Say goodbye to tungsten; the last bulb rolled off the assembly line in December 2011. We lost poet Ruth Stone in 2011 and singer-songwriter Phoebe Snow. They leave behind their poetry. We lost […]
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[…] -Bob Chrisman, excerpt from a 2011 Writing Practice on the WRITING TOPIC — DEATH & DYING. […]
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Another aspect of Death & Dying in the webcam age — the warhol-figment. Live video cam of Andy Warhol’s gravesite and an art project. Fascinating.
The Figment Project
To honor the anniversary of Warhol’s birthday, August 6, 2013 The Andy Warhol Museum and EarthCam launched a collaborative project titled Figment, a live feed of Warhol’s gravesite. This live feed, viewable 24 hours a day, seven days a week worldwide is available at this link: the warhol – figment (LINK).
Artist Madelyn Roehrig’s ongoing art project is now in its fifth year. Click here to visit the project website: figments: conversations with andy (LINK)
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