Posting Antonio's pumpkin carving work as he sends me pics. Trying to win swag from Mishka
I absolutely love Perú. Ever since I met my husband, I have become slightly obsessed with all things Perú. My wedding dress was Peruvian, my wedding rings, Peruvian. Most of my jewelry, if it wasn't made by me or one of my sisters or ordered from my favorite catalog in the world, sundance, is from Perú. For years I have had a secret treasure trove of goodies that I glean from my own private Peruvian source: shawls, ponchos, beanies, gloves, purses, rugs, housewares, fabric, art... this list is endless. 
Yesterday I drove by this beautiful red and white classic ’69 VW bus for sale on the side of the road. I was hustling my daughter back to school after an ortho appointment so I couldn’t stop and admire but I did sigh deeply. I want that van. How could I not love this vehicle? We were born in the same year. My instant affinity for the vehicle must surely also be fueled by the fact that, when I was a kid, my family used to own one red and white VW bus. Irony of ironies, a woman now longing after a vehicle she once despised. When I saw that bus it all came back in an ugly flash.
Picture the first day of sixth grade. I am an awkward child with braces on my first day in Middle School. My mother has generously sewn a dress for me to wear to my premiere at a big new school. Though my rust colored calico dress seems more suited to a nineteenth century prairie, I have no choice but to wear it after my mom has put her blood, sweat and many tears into its fabrication. I have finally arrived at the end of the first day and am anxious to be home to slip into a pair of comfortable jeans. A gaggle of students awaits parent pick up. I have no idea why I didn’t walk home per my normal habit but there I’m standing when a nameless seventh grader pipes up, “Hey I heard your mom is pregnant, AGAIN. Your parents should get a new hobby.” I doubt I need to explain to anyone the excruciating awkwardness of having one’s parents’ sexual habits discussed at the front of the school but let me elaborate. My mom was pregnant with her eighth child and this was not the first or second or last time someone would suggest that my parents find a different occupation for their time other than babymaking. At the prior go round, upon hearing my mom was pregnant with my brother Tommy, lucky number seven in the line of nine, my fourth grade band teacher suggested that my parents needed “to get a tv.” He said this in front of the whole entire class. Not cool. Needless to say, this was not my favorite childhood conversation.
I just stared at the ’To Remain Nameless’ seventh grader without responding, contemplating various ways to separate her from different parts of her body. Encouraged by my silence she continued, “And what’s up with that dress? You look like Laura Ingalls Wilder.” Grrrrr thanks fashion maven, I know I look like bucktooth Melissa Gilbert, my big brother tells me every day! At this point I have fallen into a zenlike trance trying to decide whether dragging this girl off schoolgrounds before beating her to a pulp would keep me from getting suspended.
Just when things can’t get worse, things. get. worse.
Around the corner comes my Pregnant Again Mom in our red VW bus. Recently Mom has applied a sticker, colorfully declaring Jesus with a rainbow arching over the word, on the back window of the van. I see the vehicle rounding onto Kreamer Street in slow motion just like in the movies. My mind says “Noooooooooo” in that deep distorted voice that accompanies all slow motion voiceovers. I just know that little Ms. Observation has one more nugget of wisdom in store. I want to run to meet my mother before she can pull up to the front of the school but somehow I do not move fast enough. “Oh my gosh, check out your Jesus wagon. Are you guys, like, Jesus Freaks or something?” I still have not answered her but am thinking decidedly un-Jesus-y thoughts. The funny thing is, even though I am angry with the girl who keeps saying things, my overriding emotion is shame. I am ashamed of my pregnant mom and my parents’ overactive libido. I am ashamed of my dress. I am ashamed of Jesus and that stupid sticker. I am ashamed of my lovely van.
I thought of so many things to say. In defense of the dress: “At least my mom loves me enough to make me a dress.” In defense of the pregnancy, “In fact, I am thrilled that I will have another brother and sister. They are actually the best part of my stinkin’ life right now. Unlike one of us, after I was born my parents still thought that having children was a good idea.” In defense of the sticker, “Rainbows are pretty” In defense of Jesus, “If by ‘Jesus Freak’ you mean that I think that Jesus is freaking awesome then yes.” In defense of my van, “That van is cool and it has all sorts of room inside. You’re just jealous that you’re not cool enough to have one.” Juvenile? Yes but anything would have been better than the nothing I said. Instead of speaking up for them, I just hated each one of those things, respectively, for humiliating me and drawing unwanted attention to me. On top of everything I was ashamed of being ashamed. I hated myself for being a spineless jellyfish. Without a word, I skulked off in my goofy calico dress to my pregnant mom in that embarrassing Jesus wagon.
Twenty nine years later, I have mostly forgiven that nameless seventh grader for her big mouth, knowing that I have said my share of horribly debilitating things over a lifetime. I have long since forgiven eleven year old me for being ashamed of the things she loved. Still, it makes me a little melancholy to think that I didn’t fully appreciate the things I loved until they were gone. What I wouldn’t give to have them back today. If only I still had a mom to make me a dress. I would wear the crap out of that dress- just add a belt and a pair of boots and I would be stylin’. If only I lived closer to my sister Abigail with whom my mother was pregnant at the time, I would be able to visit with her and play with her little girl Ava to my heart’s content. If only I had that groovy van, I would go out and find the flashiest, rainbowiest sticker and plant it on the back of that bus. If only I still had Jesus, I would...oh wait, I do. Freakin’ awesome.
Remember when I was psyched about my deck? If you don’t you can refresh your memory by reading Redemption. I’m almost embarrassed by the way I gushed with so much enthusiasm because now, if I had my 'druthers, I would put a torch to the whole entire deck and be done with it. What has happened? (Well, you can never underestimate the power of the hormonal cycle in a woman and anybody would be a fool and/or suicidal to make that mistake but that's another blog for another day.) I’ll tell you what has really happened, two hundred more square feet of decking renovation has happened( it's actually more square footage but measuring is overwhelming). Not to mention the railing that surrounds the entire looming entity. There is nothing more tedious than trying to put rosewood oil on hundreds of one by one inch railing slats. Where is Tom Sawyer to come recruit me some fence painters when I need him? I have been doing this job for four weeks now and every muscle is tired and sore. I feel like the Karate Kid under the cruel and exacting dictatorship of Mr Miyagi. And if I don’t get to Crane Kick somebody in the face as my reward, I’m going to be really mad.
In sum, I just want to quit. I fleetingly mentioned my quitting nature in one of my first blogs: Calling All Artists. In this glossing review, I might have failed to convey my lifelong commitment to this quitting. I am so fond of my plan of inaction that I even tried to quit giving birth to my firstborn child twenty hours into labor. Exhausted and unable to comprehend the pain and frustration of a seemingly ridiculous process, I turned to my husband and told him, “That’s it, I can’t do this. Just take me home. I’m done.” If it weren’t for my husband’s amazing and surprising skills as a doula, my son could easily have ended up as some sort of vestigial appendage, instead of the six foot something, seventeen year old, independent being he is today. That, and the fact you can’t actually quit labor...believe me, I tried.
I have no doula to talk me through finishing this dumb deck renovation. It has become tedious and tiresome and I am sick of it. When I last mentioned my tendency to quit, I also mentioned that I am trying this new thing called, “Not quitting.” Toward that end I am being my own doula. I have been talking to myself (silently) in soothing and encouraging tones, telling me,”You can do this.” As I wax on-wax off in an endless round of monotony, I find myself saying, “Slow and steady wins the race Meghan, slow and steady wins the race.” Soon I realize how stupid this saying is. Slow and steady wins what race? I doubt there was ever a real race that slow and steady actually won.
Suddenly I want to slap Aesop upside the head. I begin a full-scale argument with this belaureled toga-wearing moron who made up the story of The Tortoise and the Hare in the first place. I start to imagine that Aesop must have been an uncoordinated doofus who had a very athletic sibling who always won every physical contest they ever had. Aesop, while physically challenged, was persuasive and crafty with the words. So he used his talents to create a scenario by which he, the tortoise, could beat his brother, the hare. And for century after century, we, like gullible idiots have taken to heart a lesson so contrived it hinged on a narcoleptic rabbit.
I am now furious that I have spent so many years, probably thirty-five, believing in the sage wisdom of the moral of this ridiculous story. Slow and steady does NOT win any races. Fast and steady probably could win you some races. Let's take Lolo Jones for example, whom I admire for her awesomeness and her ability to run races without slipping into slumber. Is Aesop seriously going to try and tell her, that if she had just gone slowly in her 100m hurdle race at the 2008 Beijing Olympics, she would have won? She might not have tripped over that second to last hurdle but she sure as shooting would not have won that race. So should the moral of the story be, “Slow and steady keeps you from tripping”? or should we really shoot for the stars with “Slow and steady finishes the race”? That’s a little more plausible.
The new moral doesn’t take into account the possibility of the inveterate quitter. Who’s to say that going slowly would have prevented that silly hare from taking his ill-fated nap? Maybe he would have gone to sleep anyway but because he decided to go slowly, he would have covered less territory before slipping off to dreamland. Where does that leave me, who most closely resembles the idiot bunny in this scenario. If I started my chore slowly, then I probably would have just gotten less accomplished before deciding to quit. That would be worse than my method of starting out with high enthusiasm and then losing the enthusiasm over time until I come to complete standstill.
Maybe the moral of the story for me should be this: “Don’t take a nap before you finish the race you naughty bunny.” I take this new line of encouragement and use it as my own personal doula through the renovation process. “Don’t take a nap before you finish the race you naughty bunny." Aka: "Don’t quit, Don’t quit, Don’t quit.” Surprisingly my harangue against Aesop has carried me through the homestretch of the project. As I look around, I realize all I have left is the outer skirting of the deck to finish up. That will involve some ladder work. Ladders on the hillside might keep me entertained through the end. If not, maybe I will find another ancient sage, perhaps Plato or Socrates, to pick a fight with. If all else fails, I will be my own advocate: “Don’t take a nap before you finish the race you naughty bunny.” Who knows? It might work. It got me through today.
I’ve noticed that they always wake you up from a deep sleep to tell you that someone is dead. Who are ‘they’? Who cares? Here’s what counts: someone is dead. Nobody cares who brought the message, only that the message of death was spoken and for some reason it couldn’t wait until I was awake and lucid.
There are several reasons why this practice is not optimal: After the death of an important someone, not important like John F Kennedy Jr or Lady Di, important like your mother or your brother, sleep becomes a problem. After death, sleep is either an elicit lover taken with furious and frequent passion to obliterate the pain of reality or it is a guerrilla entity who whisper walks through the jungles of your mind, carefully eluding you with olive and black painted face.
Either way, and any of the million variations in between, normal sleep patterns have ended. In the emotional turmoil that ensues, a well-rested body and brain might have been useful tools for everything from navigating the divvying up of the deceased’s valuables in a secret locked room, like Centurians over a cloak, to negotiating the emotional minefield of questions like, “Who did he love the most?”.
Knowing this, one would hope that the omniscient 'they' would stop and think,
“Let me give her one last night of good sleep. One more night where sleep is still just sleep and not a guilty addiction or a merciless tease.” Unfortunately 'they' aren’t omniscient and don’t even really have a clue what they are doing. After all, there isn’t a manual for giving death notifications, is there? Even if there were a manual, most often ‘they’ are partners in bereavement, having already received their own earth-shattering notification and consequently, have already taken leave of their senses. The manual got tossed out the window along with all the other good things like lucidity, sharp senses, happiness, sanity.
The worst part of having been wakened from a dream state to receive the news of death is that it becomes difficult to differentiate between the dream and the reality. I thought I’d never forget being shaken awake to the news that,
“Benjamin is dead.”
Nothing could, can, will ever be able to convey the sensations that accompanied those words. Even if you climbed inside my body at the point of revelation, I don’t think you could understand what I felt. I didn’t understand what I felt. I didn’t understand anything. Death is theoretical. Death is a plant without water on the windowsill. Death is a hypothetical- even for a half living field mouse caught in a trap and then released to hobble away because nobody had the strength to finish the job. Death is a grandmother who has had cancer for years. Death is not my baby brother who went to the hospital with a cough—a terrible, horrible cough, maybe pneumonia—but not death.
Death is a dream that you wake up from. This is what makes it so difficult to reconcile waking from a dream-state to receive news of death. What is to prevent me from believing that this news is simply the ugly beginning of the next dream in a series of dreams? What is to prevent me from, when I do go back to sleep, waking up to the reality that death was just a dream, a dreadful nightmare.
The matter complicates with the semi-somnambulance of mourning. How can I describe this? It is as if somebody is holding me underwater. I don’t feel the panic of being drowned, so this is no pool horseplay, a head held underwater until breathless terror sets in. This feels more like somebody has decided it is time for me to take up abode under the sea in a not-so-fun version of Spongebob Squarepants’ friend Sandy Cheeks the Texan Squirrel’s existence. Unlike Sandy, I don’t have a naturally sunny disposition and I have no deep sea diving suit.
Even though I lack an oxygen tank I’m somehow still breathing...barely. The someone who has relegated me to underwater living has fixed it so that my lungs, like gills, are now able to filter oxygen out of the water. But my lungs are so new to this job that breathing has become an onerous task—labored, exhausting. I also have not been outfitted with any sort of face mask to protect my eyes. Everything is a shapeless blur of muted colors, mostly drab and grey. It is difficult and painful but I am able to keep my eyes open in the unblinking burning of my new existence. Every so often I think I can let out all my air, let my muscles go loose and try to float to the surface where my real life used to be located. But something is holding me down— a terrible weight has me anchored to my new home.
Living underwater is a lonely place. All my old friends can’t really visit me. They try but they don’t know how to breathe underwater. They can only dart in for a quick visit and hurry back to the oxygen rich surface, gasping for breath when they finally escape my oppressive new world. They look at me helplessly from the surface, wringing their hands, wishing there was something they could do. The only people who can really visit me in my new underwater home are those who have already practiced living there in the echo of some loved one’s death. Though few and far between, these visitors are crucial to survival in a new environment. Without overt instruction, they teach me tricks: ways to exercise my lungs as gills, ways to alleviate the raw burning of water against the eyeballs, ways to find weightlessness in a world of constant pressure.
While living in this new environment I start to learn a completely different language. I learn to interpret baked ziti and sausage and peppers as declarations of loyalty and love. I learn to translate ridiculous statements like “It must be easier to lose one when you have so many brothers and sisters,” into palatable expressions like, “I am so sorry but I am terrified and panicked. I want to say the right thing but stupid stuff keeps gushing out of my mouth. I love you and I’m here for you.” I learn to hear, in somebody’s rendition of a Sound of Music countermelody, “You are not alone.” It is a language I never knew about before my brother died. It is a language I would never have chosen to learn. It is a language that enriched my life in unimaginable ways and now I can’t remember life without it.
Time passed underwater and eventually I got the hang of it. My lungs really learned the knack of efficiently filtering air. My eyes must have developed some glassy cataract because I started to see things more clearly in sharp, brightly colored relief. My muscles must have grown attuned to compensating against the constantly crushing pressure because life stopped feeling so heavy. I even began to like my new life. I met and married someone. I had children. I suddenly realized that I no longer wanted to wake up from the dream of my brother’s death. I didn’t want to float back to the surface of my other real life. This was my new real life. My realization might have felt like betrayal except I couldn’t really remember that other life anymore. It had become the shadowlands, so how could I betray what was only once a dream itself?
One night in my new life, I had the most horribly realistic dream. Inside this dream my son accidentally killed my daughter. The shadowy grayness descended immediately and I could not fathom how to survive that reality—one that was so palpable, it had to be true. I wept with empty sorrow, muffled and cold, until my own tears woke me up. Even when I woke up I could not get rid of the ache of loss. As I ran my fingers across each member of my perfectly intact family for reassurance, the hollowness just wouldn’t let go its nagging, wouldn’t let me believe that the dream had only been a dream. It reminded me of the early days after Ben’s death when I was sure, every morning, that I would wake up back into the reality where my baby brother was still alive. Right then, I knew I had abandoned his memory for my new one. I no longer missed his delicate touch and his soft breathy kisses. I knew that if I had to trade my new life with my husband and children to regain the reality in which Benjamin was still alive, I wouldn’t make the trade. I cried bitterly at that knowledge. By mid-day the bitterness of this truth had lost its poignancy, worn down by the rush of every day life. But isn’t that how it goes when a dream is just a dream?
Ten years had gone by since Ben died and my phone rang again at two AM. In the dark, my husband turned to me with the second saddest voice I’ve ever heard and told me, “Honey, it’s your dad...your mom is dead.” Right then, more than anything, I wished I could unring that telephone bell. I wanted to undue the truth. I wanted to quickly go back to sleep and re-enter the reality where my mom was still alive. You’d think I would have believed in the power of death but I had forgotten about its merciless swiftness. There I was again, the legs of my existence swept out from beneath me. This can’t be true. Not my mother, she’s only 58. No she’s 59 today. My mother can’t be dead, not on her birthday. Not on any day.
And then I was underwater again. Deeper? In a Mid-atlantic trench? Not really, the underwater sensation was very similar to the first time around: the bleak numbness, the confusion, the weight, the labored breathing, the sore eyes, the inability to focus. It was all so familiar and still, I wasn’t ready for it. How could I feel this way anew when I had grown so accustomed to living underwater over the years? I don’t know. Clearly my extended metaphor has severe limitations. It didn’t account for a second go round. To be honest, I thought I had already paid my dues to death, that it was somebody else’s turn to receive a notification for the next few decades. What a silly thought. Even the Flaming Lips realize that, “Everyone you know, someday, will die.” I just didn’t realize it.
Here’s the thing about having lived underwater before: I was already adept at navigating some of the treacherous pathways of this murky place. I had learned to avoid the darkest caves where the eight armed monster Self-Pity lurks. I knew not to chum the waters where the twin hammerhead sharks of Depression and Despair swim constantly. I had learned from the Mermaids that personal hygiene is an important ritual to maintain sanity, keep me from turning into ugly Ursula the Sea Witch. So many tiny tricks gleaned from my other season underwater, I was almost grateful for the first experience. Almost.
Ten years have almost passed since I began my second stint underwater. I’ve come to a place of stasis where the underwater living equals regular living. Having survived and reached equilibrium, I sometimes wonder, “What is it all about?” True, the survival has brought profound growth and, with that, love and still, I know there’s something more. A thought occurs to me: Isn't this existence merely an underwater dream compared to the glory of the next? And how does that seeming non sequitur make any sense of all of this? Since when does anything make sense? None of the dying, the confusion, the inability to breathe, the burning eyes have made any sense to me. Death brings license to freely explore the afterlife, to look straight into the "and then what" that comes after death. So maybe my thought is wishful thinking, or an hallucination brought on by oxygen deprivation, maybe even the result of the bends....perhaps, once upon a time, I made a break for my surface life too quickly. I offer any of these mitigators as a safety valve for the reader who is uncomfortable with the left turn my discussion has taken. As for me, I will accept my random purple thought as a gift and consider it a sort of fringe benefit of the dream of living underwater.
