The Circus Comes to Town

I went to the circus last night with my family. It had been a few years since the last time the circus came to town. Being there brought back many memories of the circus when I was a kid. I remember going to see the Ringling Brothers, Barnum & Bailey Circus when it came to Atlanta. We had seats close to the ring (if memory serves). At one point, they asked for volunteers. I raised my hand as high as I could, wiggling and pleading, “oh please, oh please, oh please!”; and was deeply disappointed when they chose another child in my section. I remember the clown car driving into the ring and how impossibly all those clowns climbed out of that little car. It boggled my too-rational-for-my-age mind–and was most likely the first strike in my dislike of clowns. (Other strikes: creepy make-up that masks the true face, slapstick comedy and all the scary movies of the 1970s that involved clowns.)

There were trained animals: camels, zebras, tigers, dogs. The set that got the depth of my heart was the elephant show. Three old Asian elephants (the ones with the smaller ears). They were freckled, a little splotchy and looked like they could use a good massage with some extra-thick and creamy lotion. They moved steadily and gracefully, carrying their tiara-ed female performers–dancing and standing on stools and hind legs, balancing on each others backs. Two female and one male elephant. I didn’t catch his name, but the male elephant really touched me.

He reminded me of Dad. Old, wise, kind, moving slowly with grace, and a deeply emotive quality in his eyes. At times it seemed the elephants were smiling, maybe even enjoying their time in the spotlight. Elephants do more than perform at the circus, they are work animals. They carry posts and pull supplies across the grounds during set-up and tear down. They are responsible for pulling and pushing the main tent masts into place. They earn their keep.

Elephants are connected creatures. They thrive in community. They remember each other. They love. They love other elephants and they love other animals. They have compassion. They show joy and sadness.

There are several things that remind me of Dad– stars, Dr. Who, the beach, owls, trees, my cats–but I think elephants may be the best because they embody his remembrance in their expression, emotion, ambulation and wisdom.

Here and Back Again

I come to the ocean to grieve
Standing where he sat in his chair last summer
Looking out over the waves
I feel his presence in my tears
The gusty wind wraps around me
And I know he wants to be here
In my mind’s ear I hear the strains of an old familiar song
That starts as if a radio plays, then joins my voice, and then it’s his
He sings this song to comfort and encourage me
“You light up my life, you give me hope to carry on”
He sings to tell me he will always love me
Yes, you light up my life
He sings to tell me there is life after death
You give me hope to carry on
You light up my days, and fill my nights with song

While we were at the beach this evening, I was thinking about Dad and trying to write a poem, and Dad sent me a song. The first one was “You Light Up My Life”. As we returned to the car, he sent me “What I Did For Love.” And when I got back to Epworth, he sent me “Yesterday Once More.” I spent a good part of the evening looking for more songs on iTunes to download and create a playlist for remembering Dad. I called it “Yesterday Once More.”

Listening to songs that remind me of Dad and my childhood years makes me cry. But it’s a good cry and the nostalgia reminds me of all the wonderful times and good feelings with my Dad. I feel closer to him and it helps me.

I hoped to see my stars at the beach, but it was cloudy. I waited and watched for them to appear, but to no avail. It’s OK. East Beach is my beach. It’s the beach I call home. I think it’s my little boy’s beach, too. He told me he wants to live here. I dream of it. I long for it. God speaks to me here; always has, even when I was but a wee thing. It’s where I went in my teen years to hope, to wish and to pray. Dad speaks to me here, too.

This island is in my blood. I got my first scar when I cut my leg on a barnacle here. The island and I became blood brothers. I was 5, maybe. I was climbing on the rock with my brothers, searching for crabs and shells, down by the old pier at Epworth. It’s the pier where I caught my very first fish–a little toad fish. I was so excited that I ran all the way back to Reynolds to show my Dad. He thought it was great.

“Kiss today goodbye–the sweetness and sorrow.
Love is never gone, as we travel on,
Love is what we remember.”

By The Way

It’s been a quiet week. Last weekend, my boys left for the start of the tour of grandparents on Friday before I got home from work. I was disappointed to have missed their departure, but glad when they called later to let me know they made the half-way point and were in the hotel for the night. I stayed up late, as I usually do when I’m alone, but I slept for nearly 12 hours. It was nice to have an uninterrupted night–even the cats let me sleep and didn’t disturb me. But Saturday night was different.

I turned out my light just after midnight and found I couldn’t get to sleep. My mind was busy and got caught up in a cycle of negative thoughts. I tried to pray them away, and it seemed to help a bit, but I kept going back to the nagging feeling that there was something wrong, and specifically it was me. A couple of times in the months since Dad died I’ve had something like a voice in my head say “You’re next.” It frightens me, a similar thing happened in the months before Dad died–I felt like I was told he would die soon, before we even knew he was sick. See why it makes me worry?

I prayed to Dad that he would help me be well, healthy and long-lived. My sleep came but it was a bit fitful. My husband’s alarm clock went off at 6 am (I’ve got to remember to turn that thing off!). I turned it off and went back to sleep. My cat Stuart woke me up around 8 and snuggled in beside me while I snoozed a bit longer. I thanked him for waking me up so kindly. Sometimes I wonder if he’s a reincarnation of a previous cat because he just seems to know things.

Anyway, I went to church as I usually do…a little bit late and alone. During the service I remembered that I needed to go to the bookstore afterwards to get some resources for the members of the bereavement group I lead, so I wrote myself a note. They had told me they wanted to see Jesus Calling and Heaven is for Real, and anything else that might look appropriate for the bereaved.

Going to the bookstore is part of my usual Sunday routine. I like to go have a chai and look at the craft and cooking magazines. Sometimes I get lost in the discounted book section. I started there, hoping to find some bargains. I had limited success there so I headed back to the devotional book section.

aka- The Hippie Bible

That’s where I saw it–The Way. There on the bookshelf to my left, at heart level; laying out on the edge of the shelf was The Way. I thought to myself, surely not? Could this be a new edition of the Bible my father carried with him on the front seat of his 1970 1/2 Ford Falcon? He carried that paperback, hippie Bible all through my younger years, to church, the men’s group, Elders and Sunday School. I picked it up from the shelf and slipped off the package band to look inside. Sure enough, in the publisher’s introduction was confirmation that this indeed was a new and updated edition of my Dad’s Bible! It was as if Dad was there, waiting for me to find him in the bookstore so he could tell me he’s still looking out for me and encouraging me.

Dad is still with me on The Way.

So now I’m trying to track down Dad’s old Bible. I know I have seen it at their house, but I can’t say how recently. I’ll be home in a few weeks and plan to look for it. Dad carried that Bible when he was about the same age I am now. I wonder if he wrote notes in it? Did he highlight or underline things? What might he have left in it? Maybe there are some notes of things he wanted to remember tucked in the pages. I hope I can find it.

Trees

Continuing on the grief journey, I’ve been thinking lately how important music and songs are to me. When I was a little girl, my Dad would often whistle. His favorite was a tune that provided the melody for the lyrics of a famous poem by Joyce Kilmer (1886-1918) called “Trees”. I copied it from Bartleby.com.

Photo: The 2nd Largest Cedar in the US, located on St. Simon’s Island, GA

I THINK that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.

A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the sweet earth’s flowing breast;

A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;

A tree that may in summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;

Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Who intimately lives with rain.

Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.

Dad would often quote the words of the poem or sing them to the tune. I could only remember the first two lines when I started to think about it, so I posted it here to help me remember and to include it as part of my growing online memory collection. Sitting with these words, it fits that they would appeal so to Dad. He loved trees, music, word play, nature, God. I do too.

Connecting this way, to the memory of my Dad, seems to be part of the work of creating a new definition of my relationship with Dad. The relationship that continues in a different way in the absence of his physical, bodily presence.

I don’t usually watch the tv show “Bones”, but happened to see part of an episode last week. The lead male character was raised primarily by his grandfather and held a great deal of anger and disappointment at his father who had died when he was a boy. His grandfather shared with him a letter, written by his father, that expressed his feelings of love for his son and his regret that he wasn’t a better father. It was in a box that included many mementos of times they had shared. The lead male did have some happy memories of his father that were overshadowed by the pain of the lost and missing. The lead female, his partner in work and family, told him of a time theory that basically states that those wonderful, loving and happy times are still happening and continue to play out. They haven’t disappeared or ended, he need only to think of them and they will be relived and re-learned.

It is comforting to think that those true moments of love live on and are not lost when we, or our beloved, die. So play on, memories! Play on, songs! Play on, poems! With a sure and certain hope of the resurrection to life eternal.

Who?

It’s been one of those day/weeks/months/years. I thought I knew myself. You know what I mean? That I knew who I was, that my identity was clear, so clear to me that it was clear to everyone else, too. But then life happened. A series of events over a series of years, each one painful and redefining in its own way, and then I’m in that space where people are saying, “who are you anyway?”. And let me just say I really hate it, I mean it pisses me off, when someone tells me that I don’t know who I am. As if they knew!

After seminary and moving to the midwest, I came to the realization and the admission, that there were certain things in life I needed to feel like myself, like I knew where I was and how I was doing, and, perhaps more importantly, I realized that those things were easier to find in the classroom than the office. I was looking to others to tell me who I am, what I am, what I’m worth.

More than 10 years later, I’m learning that I’m getting frustrated with others defining me incorrectly– defining me by terms that don’t ring true to who I believe myself to be or in line with who I strive to be. We all have mirroring needs, and I’m no exception, but the mirroring doesn’t help if I don’t agree with it and it can’t help if it’s nonexistent. Mirroring to me is the idea that people reflect back to me the positive and affirming things I know to be truthful about myself (that I am worthwhile, loved and ok, to start). But if I don’t believe these things (that I’m good enough, smart and doggonit people like me), then their words will fall flat before they reach my heart. Yet, at the same time, I need to hear these things to build that belief. So maybe it is that if I hear those mirroring things often enough and begin to see them myself that I can build that truth and live into it.

I’m learning that one of the reasons I am the way I am is because I didn’t have enough of that mirroring in my childhood. I’m quite certain that my mother didn’t have much mirroring either, which is part of the reason she wasn’t able to provide it for me. I’ve learned also that her unhealthy ways have effected me too.  I’d like to believe that I do a better job of mirroring for my children. I’m learning again how to mirror for myself. And I’m learning about shame and how Dame Shame creeps up and turns the mirror of reality into a fun house mirror that distorts and destroys the true self image, making it harder to see the good things for what they are, and though there might be an auto-correct setting on the mirror, it can take a long time to adjust. (If you’ve had issues with body image or weight, you may know how long it takes to appreciate the new cute clothes you can wear when you get into shape because you still think of yourself as the one who could never look good in something like that. That’s shame controlling the mirror with fear of humiliation and the sense that I’m not all that, even after you become the swan.)

And here’s where I get down in the dumps again. My Dad was the one I could depend on to mirror for me. (Sure there were times when he didn’t, but for the most part, when I needed him, he was there.) Now that he’s gone, I feel like my number one fan is gone too. Now I rely on the memory of how he supported me. And I try to think of what he would say to me, if he were here now. My big regret at the time of his death, was that I didn’t get to hear the words one last time. Oh how I wish he had said them or that I had something written by him. Maybe I do. Maybe I’ll find a note or a card somewhere in the cards and things I’ve kept over the years. Or maybe, just maybe, he’ll visit me in a dream.

A Blessing

As you go forth from this experience…
May the Love of God surround you,
May the Grace of God astound you,
May the Hope of God ground you,
May the Light of God abound in you,
May the Peace of God be found through you,
now and for ever more. Amen.

(Based on Pearl Rohrer’s blessing given in 2007. Her words are lines 2-4. Prepared for a group of interns completing a unit of CPE.)

Grieving in Haiku

A group of poems about my Dad’s death.

sitting by the bed
helpless as he breathes his last
his life slips away

words of painful truth
he’s gone but not forgotten
in my heart he’ll stay

my young son asked me
why did grandpa have to die
my family grieves

old voicemail review
i hear dad’s familiar voice
crying grateful tears

cards and letters come
words of love, stories comfort
wide community

remembering dad
longing to feel his presence
my heart is broken

over a month on
and the grief is still so fresh
will it always be