"There Are Sorrows Much Keener than These"

The Blue Bowl 

BY JANE KENYON

Like primitives we buried the cat

with his bowl. Bare-handed

we scraped sand and gravel

back into the hole. It fell with a hiss

and thud on his side,

on his long red fur, the white feathers

that grew between his toes, and his

long, not to say aquiline, nose.

We stood and brushed each other off.

There are sorrows much keener than these.

Silent the rest of the day, we worked,

ate, stared, and slept. It stormed

all night; now it clears, and a robin

burbles from a dripping bush

like the neighbor who means well

but always says the wrong thing.

--Jane Kenyon, "The Blue Bowl" from Collected Poems. Copyright © 2005 by the Estate of Jane Kenyon. 

(With thanks to my long-ago UI poetry professor, Michael Van Walleghen, who introduced me to the work of Jane Kenyon.  I will be eternally grateful.)

We buried the guinea pig today, not with her bowl but with a carrot and a black-eyed Susan, for no one should travel to the afterlife without food and something beautiful.  She was an elderly and ailing piggy and we chose her death for her, which, even when right, is never an easy thing to do.  It never should be an easy thing to do, and it’s not a responsibility I take lightly.  But given her age (great, for a guinea pig) and her condition (poor), I thought I would have more peace than I had in making this choice.  I am an emotional person at the best of times but my response to this sad event has seemed out of proportion, even for me.  Don’t get me wrong, I mourn all of our beloved pets when they leave, but this feels--different.  Sometimes letting go of a guinea pig is more than just letting go of a guinea pig.

For the last eight years, I have been mentally writing an ongoing eulogy, steeling myself step by step to say goodbye to someone who is my heart.  It does something to you, something that feels irreparable, living with incomplete mourning day in and day out for eight years.  In recent times, I’ve almost forgotten what it was like before that diagnosis that sent our world crumbling down.  I wish I had appreciated it more when it was good.  I spent a lot of time in denial and even more in a state of paralysis.

I closed all the windows.  I battened down the hatches.  I knew a storm was coming and I shut down as an act of self-protection.  But the storm seeped through my pores and went underground.  There’s a river of pain flowing under my surface.  It is deep and it is wide.  Smaller losses, like a guinea pig death, crack open the ground above and send fissures running down to that river.  The river rushes up and out and floods, and then it recedes.  But it’s always right there, just below the veneer of okay-ness that I have constructed on top of it.

A lot of people have this river inside them.  I don’t know if this river will ever dry up and go away.  I don’t even know if that’s what I want it to do.

I wrote a really depressing poem about all of this today that I want to share with all of you, because I’m generous that way.  Today I don’t want to hear that it will all be OK or that God has a plan or that my endurance of my pain somehow makes me a saint.  Today I just need to feel it, to let the current carry me.  Tomorrow, maybe, the floods will subside.

Everything we ever love, we lose.

Ponyboy and Robert Frost were right,

Gold can’t stay, it all dissolves to rust.

Everyone we love will turn to dust.

We strain to hold back time, we dodge, distract;

Though shadows may be slowed, they never cease,

They dog our steps, they always readjust.

Everyone we love will turn to dust.

Sometimes the loss is sudden, sometimes slow:

A drip of water wears away a stone.

Slow shredding of a heart, or single thrust--

Everyone we love will turn to dust.

So many do not get what they deserve,

So many pay more than they ever owed.

It rains upon the just and the unjust;

Everyone we love will turn to dust.

The smaller losses magnify the large,

Remind us that there’s greater pain in store,

But walk embracing life and death we must:

Everyone we love will turn to dust.

I Want to Be the Person Mr. Rogers Thought I Was

http://focusfeatures.com/wont-you-be-my-neighbor/

I just saw Morgan Neville’s powerful documentary, “Won’t You Be My Neighbor?” and I can’t encourage you strongly enough to go see it.  It’s a beautifully made film, both reverent and humanizing in its treatment of its remarkable subject, and I came away wanting to see it again (and maybe even to take notes the second time around).  Don’t wait until it comes out on DVD or Netflix—go see it in the theater.  First of all, by doing so you demonstrate that a movie like this can be a commercial box office success.  Secondly, it’s a unifying experience to see it as part of a community, and don’t we all need that right now?  I have never in my life heard or seen so many people, including myself, continuously crying at a movie.  I can think of few films—maybe “Schindler’s List?”—that have so moved an audience of which I was a part.

Fred Rogers was a lifelong Republican, did insist that his friend and co-star Francois Clemmons stay “in the closet” while on the show, and was far more censorious of media produced for kids than I am, but despite those differences l feel a strong kinship to him and to his work.  As an adult, and particularly as a parent and a teacher, I have found myself moved to tears by his shows and his words.  He so beautifully and humbly modeled what it looks like to truly respect young children, and sincerely demonstrated the words grace and mercy in his repeated affirmations of unconditional love for all of us collectively and individually.  I enjoyed his shows as a child but did not fully appreciate him or what he was trying to do; by middle school I thought he was ridiculous.  But whenever I was sick at home as a teenager, I would almost always watch his show (along with “Sesame Street” and Bob Ross’s “The Joy of Painting”).  Whether I admitted it or not, Mr. Rogers was security.  Mr. Rogers made me feel better.

As I watched the film, the clips of Mr. Rogers as puppeteer were some of the most moving to me.  My Simon the snail puppet is my Daniel Tiger, as is my daughter’s stuffed Piglet, which I used to make talk to her (OK, I still do this).  I was a kid who favored my stuffed animals above all other toys, and, while I was always a little scared of Lady Elaine and wasn’t a huge fan of the royal family puppets, X the owl, Daniel, and Henrietta Pussycat seemed like friends.  As a somewhat fearful, risk-averse child, I especially connected with Henrietta.  In the same way that certain smells can immediately conjure emotional memory, hearing Henrietta’s and Daniel’s voices and seeing them on the big screen instantly transported me back to my childhood, safe and warm in my living room. 

As my friend and I left the movie theater this evening, still wiping away tears, a man with a sign asked us for money for food.  We acknowledged him but didn’t give him any money.  I got all the way to my car, got in, and wrestled with myself.  I got out of the car and walked back to the theater.  My intent was to ask the man what he wanted to eat, go get it, and bring it back.  When I got back to the theater, he was gone.  I walked up and down the sidewalk a bit looking for him but didn’t see him.  I walked back to the car in the rain.  I wanted to cry. I felt like a fraud.  Loving your neighbor is all well and good when you’re in a movie theater—but what do you do when your neighbor is standing in front of you asking for help?  I felt like I had failed Mr. Rogers, and the man in need, and God, and myself.  Because I am, ultimately, a drama queen at heart, my internal monologue went something like this:  “Mr. Rogers would be so disappointed in you.  Did you learn nothing from that movie, or from him?  When are you going to really live out your beliefs?  What kind of Christian are you, anyway?”  As I drove away, I saw a man a couple of blocks away that I thought might be the same man but I wasn’t sure, because in my embarrassment at not helping him, I hadn’t really looked at him closely (and there’s a deeper lesson in that, too).  I thought about parking and running after him, but didn’t know how to explain myself if it turned out to not be the same man after all.  Then I felt guilty all over again for not stopping a second time.  I wish I could tell you that I stopped then and there and went after him, found out his name, took him out for dinner, and made a difference in the world!  But I didn’t.

I’m going to keep my eyes out for him, though, and for others like him.  I’m going to get restaurant gift cards and carry them with me.  I’m going to try to be kinder to everyone (not just to the people who look and think and talk like me), to help look for solutions to the myriad of problems that plague our country, to love my students—ALL of my students—more and to show it, to make my relationship with them my number one teaching priority; in short, I vow to try harder to be the person that Fred Rogers always told me that I could be.  I’m glad he isn’t here to see what we’ve become—how anguished he would be by the children separated from their parents at the border--but I also wish his wise and gentle voice was here to help guide us through this mess.  God bless you, Mr. Rogers.  Your voice still speaks to us—I hope we listen.

Running Hat

Almost two years ago I ran my first ever 5K race, at age 42.  I’ve written before about how and why I began running, so I’ll only give the short version here.  My daughter began running cross country for her junior high team, and I found myself moved to tears at each meet by these young runners as I watched them push themselves at a sport that was at once both team-oriented and highly individualized.  At the same time, I desperately needed to find some kind of physical activity to get my mind and body in shape as I dealt with the increasing stress of caring for a husband with early-onset Alzheimer’s.  So after 42 years of not being an athlete, of never playing an organized sport, I decided to see if I could become a runner. 

          

It has not been an easy transformation.  Although I loved running sprints in PE classes, I am not naturally a distance runner.  Those early runs were so horrible, I almost gave up.  However, I persevered, and it soon became clear that, besides good running shoes, I needed appropriate clothing for this new endeavor.  Now, I don’t know about you, but I am all for any activity which requires the purchase of some new outfits.  I got some cheap running tights and capris and polyester/spandex T-shirts that wicked away sweat (of which there was a disturbingly copious amount), exercise bras, and cushioned running socks.  I wear glasses and I quickly realized that I needed something to block the glare of the sun.  Feeling that I would rather shade my eyes with a brim than with sunglasses, I looked around for a suitable hat.  I finally found the perfect hat, at my local Goodwill store.  After our first (and hopefully only) bout with head lice this past year (thanks, junior high children!), I’m not sure I would ever again purchase a secondhand hat, but I bought one that day, a hat that looked like it had never even been worn.  The thing about it that appealed to me, besides the light, nylon fabric and extra-long brim, was the logo:  Kauai Marathon 2009. 

           

A marathon in Hawaii.  I would never be a marathon runner, I told myself.  Those people are crazy.  On my very first run, I barely made it a quarter mile before I had to stop and walk.  26.2 miles?  No way.  And traveling to Hawaii was also not in my immediate future, for a whole slew of reasons.  Still, the hat called to something in me, and so I bought it.  I wore it frequently that first year of learning how to run.  It made me feel legit.  I felt a little guilty wearing it, like I might be giving onlookers a false and inflated impression of my capabilities, but I wore it anyway.  When I wore it, I felt…possibility.  Maybe—maybe—someday I could be the kind of person who traveled to Hawaii to run in a marathon. Maybe I could reinvent myself, after 42 years, into a stronger, pared-down version of the person I had become.  Maybe my life would not always be as difficult as it was at that moment in time.  Running was definitely teaching me things about myself:  how to persevere at something I wasn’t naturally good at, how connected mind and body are to each other, how to be more disciplined.  The hat was a tangible symbol of that learning and of that potential for more.

        

The hat not only represented what I could (maybe, possibly, someday) be, it also felt like my own personal cheerleader (think a peppier, more encouraging version of the Sorting Hat in Harry Potter).  I thought of the person to whom the hat had previously belonged, of all the people at the 2009 Kauai Marathon who must have been given or purchased such hats.  There was a whole community of people out there waiting for me to find them, running people.  Even though I was (and am still) a solo runner most of the time, I could feel them out there, the other runners.  One of the things that drew me into running, during those weeks spent watching junior high kids running their hearts out at cross country meets, was the way runners and fans supported all those who ran, from the fastest to the slowest and everyone in between.  Whether I consciously knew it or not, I wanted that—I needed it.  Caregiving is lonely and scary and sad, and running provided me with a membership into a network of people who, though competitive, know how to lift each other up.

So.  This hat has protected my eyes from bright sun, shielded my glasses from falling rain, and carried me through the past two-plus years of my running education.  It reminds me that whatever is now, whatever I am at this moment, is not the end of the story.  That there is always more—maybe 26.2 miles more—waiting for me to discover and to do.  Some of it, possibly, in Hawaii.

Ten Things You See at a Junior High Cross Country Meet

1.  Dogs

I’m not sure why, but there are always dogs on leashes at cross country meets.  Is it because it’s outdoors?  Possibly.  But, then, why don’t you see dogs at football games or soccer games?  I don’t know.  But someone always brings a dog.  I am not opposed to this, as long as the dog in question is well-behaved.  Getting to pet the dogs of total strangers is one of the many perks of attending a cross country meet.

2.  A group of little kids chasing each other

Their big brothers/sisters/cousins are running at the meet.  They don’t care.  They don’t particularly want to be there.  They are bored.  There are broad, open, grassy spaces.  So they chase each other and laugh and fall down and get grass-stained knees.  They pick up handfuls of mown grass and throw it at each other and laugh like maniacs.  At the end of the meet they are convinced that they have just experienced the best outdoor playdate ever.

3.  Boys trying to hit each other with sticks

What is it with boys and sticks?  Where do they even find sticks on a flat, grass course?  Who knows, but find them they do.  First, they just swing the sticks around aimlessly.  Parents warn them to “be careful with that stick!”  They ignore said parents, who then resume their conversations with other adults.  Aimless stick-swinging evolves into swordplay accompanied by kung-fu-like kicking.  Another level of parental warning occurs.  This delightful game ends with one child in tears while another protests, “But I didn’t mean to hit Joey in the eye!”

4.  A kid messing with the flags/rope that edge the course

There is a lot of waiting in a cross country race—at least it seems like a lot if you are five.  You have to stand around next to this rope waiting for something to happen.  If you’re lucky, there are colorful plastic flags attached to the rope.  Lean on the rope—it holds you up!  Continue leaning until the pressure of your body starts to pull the stakes, to which the rope is attached, out of the ground.  A parent tells you to “let go of that rope.”  Comply, until parent looks away and starts talking to his/her neighbor.  Repeat process until the stakes are pulled free or until you are removed from the scene, whichever comes first.

5.  A toddler trying to escape from its minder and bowlegged-sprint onto the course

Everyone is running!  Running is fun!  Especially when you have just learned how to do it!  The moment that no one is holding her is the moment a toddler decides to scoot her drunkenly-staggering but amazingly speedy little body out onto the course.  The parent dodges under/over the rope and grabs the escapee, who howls in protest.  Eventually tiring of trying to contain a tiny Tasmanian-devil-like tornado of fury, the adult sets down the child, who gleefully makes another run for it.

6.  Runners of every shape and size

Junior high kids come in an astounding array of sizes and shapes, from the most petite sixth grader to the eighth-grader who looks like he’s ready for the NBA tryouts.  The unique nature of this sport, in which you compete against yourself as much as you compete against others, and in which you are both an individual and part of a team, and in which everyone—coaches, fans, and your teammates—seems united in encouraging you, means that it attracts both naturally talented runners and kids who wouldn’t otherwise be athletes.  This is amazing and wonderful.  Everyone is welcome, as long as you are trying.  If only all of life were the same.

7.  Someone crying

Running is a surprisingly emotional sport.  Runners cry from pain or exhaustion or elation.  Parents get weepy at the sometimes Herculean efforts being made by these young people who are testing the boundaries of their endurance.  

8.  Fans and runners cheering on runners from other schools

There is a parent (or maybe she’s a coach, I really don’t know) from Edison Middle School who I’ve seen at several meets.  She claps for and cheers on every runner who passes by her.  She eyeballs their uniform and then yells out encouragement:  “Keep it up, Mahomet!”  “Good job, Unity!”  At the last meet of the season, I witnessed a thin boy in a Knights uniform with a wrapped ankle doing the same:  “Keep your pace, you’ve got plenty of time!”  “If you want that medal, you’re going to have to sprint for it—you can do it!”  I can literally count on one hand the number of times I’ve seen a parent yell in a nasty way, and then it was at their own child (not that that makes it OK).  Yes, people encourage their kids to “Catch her!  Pass him up!” but we clap and cheer in admiration for the first runner through, whether they’re ours or not, and for the last runners who are breathlessly straggling in.  It’s competitive, but good sportsmanship reigns.

9.  Two runners who suddenly decide within the last stretch that they are not going to let the other one beat them

This can happen with the leaders, but it also happens with kids in the middle of the pack and even with those trailing towards the end.  They see the finish line and that competitive drive kicks in, and they BRING.  IT.  Those are some of the best moments, even when—or maybe especially when—the winning of the race is not on the line.  

10. Kids trying their hardest and pushing themselves to their limits

This is why I am often the crying person from number 7 (see above).  It is powerful, it is moving to see eleven-, twelve-, and thirteen-year-olds with their junior high bodies, and all the insecurities and confidence issues that go along with that stage, pushing themselves mentally and physically.  It is a beautiful and humbling thing to witness the determination and struggle written across their faces as they propel themselves towards the finish line with every ounce of their heart and soul, with every muscle.  There is something primal and deep about running as hard as you can possibly run that speaks to the cores of those of us watching.  It’s hard not to see a metaphor, sharp and poignant and breath-taking, in the image of an adolescent running full tilt towards her future with everything she’s got.

Hump-Day Haiku: Scarlet Macaws

Inspired by the "Jungle Animal Hospital" episode of the PBS show, Nature:

Scarlet macaws sail
Bright wings snap like flags unfurled
Streamer tails ripple

Watch the episode here: http://www.pbs.org/wnet/nature/jungle-animal-hospital-scarlet-macaws-released-wild/14294/

 

I'm (Not) in Control

True confession time:  I have never been drunk.  I have never taken a drug that wasn’t over-the-counter or prescribed by a doctor.  (Unless you count dark chocolate and the occasional Starbucks Mocha Frappucino—I do appreciate a good caffeine jolt now and again.  Anyone else think they can actually feel the exact moment when that mocha coffee goodness hits their bloodstream?  Just me?)

This is because I am a control FREAK.  I am not, however, a neat freak.  A visit to my house on any given day will confirm this.  While I’m confessing, we have had carpeting in our living room for thirteen years.  I have never shampooed or steam-cleaned it.  I know, I know, it’s disgusting.  My approach to housecleaning is basically a denial that it needs to take place.

But I hate to be out of control.  It’s scary.  It’s unpredictable.  And even though I consider myself creative and fairly spontaneous, I also love routine and predictability.  When I am able to eat lunch at home, I eat the same thing day after day (a quesadilla with refried beans, spinach, and cheese and a side of plain Greek yogurt, preferably served with an iced tea, in case you were wondering.  It’s easy to fix, I really like it—why change?)

Well, news flash to self—I am NOT in control, not now, not ever.  There is nothing like the potent combination of a husband with a progressive, incurable disease, a teenager, and a job search that continually hits dead ends to make me painfully aware of this.

Ironically, I gave a lovely and earnest speech at my high school graduation about control.  I said, in my seventeen years of wisdom and pretty much zero years of actual life experience, that even if we didn’t have control over everything in our lives we did have control over our responses to the things that happened to us.  OK, I’m actually a little proud of young me for having such a mature outlook, but it’s one thing to say this at seventeen and another thing entirely to do it when you’re forty-three and taking much too seriously your Facebook friend’s question, “If you could run away, where would you go?” because, honestly, you can think of lots of places you’d rather be than in your bathroom cleaning up the pee on the floor again and you’re in a hurry (again) because you can’t freaking REMEMBER that daily life now means allotting extra time in your routine to clean up pee or [insert activity related to caregiving here].

So, lack of control.  It sucks.  I’m American and I’m a feminist.  I like to be independent.  Not being in control often translates into (ARGH) relying on other people to help you.  I am beyond grateful that there are people I can call upon to mow my lawn when my mower is broken, fix lunch for my husband and make sure he’s OK during the day, take my kid to or from some school event, etc., etc.  But I don’t LIKE having to ask for help.  And I’m embarrassed for people to see my messy house and my messy life.

But here’s the thing.  I’ve been on the giving end of the help spectrum and it feels amazing to be able to step in for someone when they need a hand.  I like that feeling.  But I’ve come to think that it’s equally important to, at least sometimes, be on the other side of that equation.  Accepting help gracefully means being humble and feeling grateful.  It chafes, but those are skills I need to practice.  And other people appreciate getting to be the hero, too. 

It reminds me of church work.  For a long time, I did a lot of work on multiple church committees.  I tried not to ask too much of other people.  I just tried to take care of everything on my own as much as possible.  I told myself that I was sparing other people the work but really it was about (Surprise!) me getting to have more control over the activities so they could happen the way I wanted them to happen.  I can’t do that now, and guess what?  People step up when they have to.  Things get done without me being in charge all the time.  Letting other people share the burden prevents you from burning out to a hollow shell of a person who mutters resentfully about others’ lack of involvement while simultaneously patting yourself on the back for your own achievement.  Not that I speak from experience.  Yes, I have been that person, and I’m not proud of her.  She is the opposite of humble, plus, she’s super crabby.  Not fun.

Did you ever do that “getting to know you” activity in school or scouts or camp where everyone sits in a circle and passes a ball of yarn around until you have a big messy web?  And the message is that we are all connected?  It’s true.  We are.  And I think we work best when we take turns being in control—or at least as in control as we human beings are able to be.

I could do a whole, other post about control and God and us and how I think that all works.  Short answer:  I have no clue, honestly.  I believe that God is somehow ultimately in control and we’re not, but I don’t understand how or why things happen the way they do if that’s true.  I have trust in God but, really, a little more clarity would be helpful.  (Hint, hint, God.)

If you're my age, you're probably feeling an urge to go watch some Janet Jackson videos after all this talk of control, so I won't keep you any longer.  I guess I'm not sure what the takeaway is today, friends, other than to say that I’m learning how to accept my lack of control over my life.  It’s a process and a work in progress.  I’m learning.