A necklace

It seems that life is intent on reminding me of the validity and ubiquitousness of my favorite word: juxtapose (to place side by side, especially for comparison or contrast, fyi).  The sorrows and joys of life are lined up side by side, one dark, one light, followed by another dark one, then perhaps a light one--like beads strung on a necklace.

It seems that there has been a fair share of dark in life recently, as pertains to those around me and their processes.  My aunt has cancer.  A friend has heartbreak.   My own thoughts and energy have been murky.

But on a brighter note, my parents will move back to Finland in two days.  They are returning to a land that has changed much since they lived here, and from a country that is the opposite in weather, temperament and location.  It will not be a painless change, but I trust it will be a good one.

Then, along with this wonderful news of family reunited, there is once again the shadow side of loss. My uncle passed away.  I don't grieve on his behalf because he went somewhere that I long to go, to the other side of finite time, to a joyous eternal life.  But on this side of time, I feel the loss.  I know my aunt and cousins and their spouses and children have to deal with a new reality that is missing an important piece.  My uncle and aunt had been married for over half their lives; they met when my aunt was 14. It's not just a hole in your life when such a person passes away, it's a part of yourself that goes, too.

So, I sit here at the kitchen table, staring out at a brilliant blue sky and sunlit apartment buildings, contemplating the intricacies of life to the rhythm of the wall clock and my own keyboard typing. Light. Dark. Light. Dark. Each bead of the necklace is carefully juxtaposed by the one beside it, adding luster, adding beauty, adding content.

May we wear it with hope, ever with hope.

mighthavebeens

I'm visiting the room of losses in the cellar today, with nothing to add to the shelves full of life lived and lost. Today's mission is actually to empty out a little box full of losses that are a bit squirmy and chameleon-like.  They're called "might-have-beens." Yep, hypothetical things often labeled daydreams or something more vague like hopes.  But I've been thinking that this box and its contents don't belong in the room of losses, regardless of the fact that they represent deferred hopes. 

I have plenty of these might-have-beens and generally I don't sit and ponder them too much until they leave a slight ache inside.  It's the beginning of a new year--of the calendar and of my life, and consequently I usually make some life assessments at this time.  I think when one reaches this age (early 30s), there are plenty of things that have and haven't happened, and it is a natural time to take stock of the situation.  I've decided that this box must go.

I settle myself into the overstuffed chair in the corner with the box in my lap.  One last look.  I lift the lid and let the little shimmery pieces of almost nothingness sift through my fingers.  I catch small glimpses of old might-have-beens: moving abroad, a mountain cafe in Austria, a PhD, marriage, a trip to New York, a happy senior year, kids, words left unspoken, etc.  With a determined sigh, I replace the lid and leave the room, bent on fulfilling my task.

I take the box up to a small hill where the wind is eager to do my bidding.  I flick off the lid and let the might-have-beens float away over the wintery landscape.  Perhaps they will materialize in others' lives or float over the sea.  But I feel a sense of refreshing and cleansing as I look at the now empty box.  I'm choosing to believe that might-have-beens are too flimsy to deal with the weight of really living a full life.  Give me the real stuff!  

And I don't mean that some of those little pieces that are riding on the wind weren't real or important for certain seasons of my life.  Sometimes they carried me or gave me direction.  Sometimes they distracted me or taught me.  But as I said, I am taking stock of the situation, and I have a sense that in order to embrace the full weight of what life is now, they must go.

In the Room of Losses

1985: Yours truly learning to make pulla with Mummo (d. February 23, 2012)

This small picture, and a few others, are the new additions I bring to the room of losses as I grieve.  Not without hope, because I will see her again.  And with peace, because she is free of her earthly burdens and pain. 
I can't seem to write, to express anything in poetry or words. Just tears. Aching. An image in my mind's eye, where I place a kiss on her forehead and cup her face in my hands as I whisper, "You are loved, Grandma, you are loved."

mourning

I was waiting at the Gaza border for three children and their mothers to arrive to be taken to Wolfson Hospital for heart surgeries.  It was a beautiful cloudless day with a breeze blowing through the open doors of the van.  One mother arrived before the others with her young son Dea, a four month old sweetheart with huge brown eyes.  As we waited for the other two to arrive, we received news that baby Baran had died in the hospital.

I got out of the van and stared out over dry fields into the distance.  This was not how it was supposed to end.  I was so sure he would yet recover and walk and run and play like all healthy young boys do.  I was shocked.  I thought of Baran's young parents.  It is impossible not to like them upon first meeting.  As I recalled their faces, I knew I could not even begin to understand their loss and their grief.  They will be flying out tomorrow, and while I'm sure it brings some kind of relief to go home and have the uncertainty of the past month over with, they return without a son.

i want the very air that envelopes us,
every thread in the intricate
weave of the cosmos to come at its
softest and most gentle, to wrap
you in a cocoon of mournful comfort,
that your tears would not cease until
they had found their way into this
fabric of solace, seeping into it,
coloring it with the deep hues of loss
and adding to its design the
beautiful memory of a son we loved.

the cellar room

         In the cellar of my imaginary house, there is a room that I rarely go into.  I usually only pass by its closed wooden door on my way elsewhere down the corridor.  But on days like today, when my lungs and heart seem to have been replaced by a constant ache in my chest cavity, I know I must open the door.  The door has a simple plaque that reads, "Losses." With a deep sigh, I enter inside, aware of the feeling of familiarity that sweeps over me.  The minute I enter in, I forget that I am in my cellar, for it is so large.  It is the kind of cellar room that is composed of many smaller ones full of nooks and crannies and odd little windows with views I no longer see.  The walls are lined with shelves full of odds and ends; filing cabinets with clippings and airplane tickets; photographs in frames of all shapes and sizes; and boxes piled against the brick walls, full of emotions and colors.  There is a whole corner piled up with bags of things I haven't even gone through yet.  It is a room full of snippets from my life gone by.

         Today I came to place some items on the shelf and to sit in the overstuffed chair in the corner. I am not always great at acknowledging how much something lost meant to me. Sometimes when I ache, I don't even know why.  But today is different. I open a little velvet box in my hands. Inside it is a golden chain with a pearl pendant.  I don't even know how many years ago my grandmother gave it to me.  But I remember thinking when she gave it to me, that it was because she wasn't sure she would see me again.  Thankfully, I did see her on various occasions after that.  The second item is a glass jar of peach jam, the kind you can get from Lidl. When Sonja and I were in Spain this fall, my grandma was so upset she couldn't send anything home with us. So we finally agreed to take the opened jar of peach jam that she so insistently wanted us to have.  Grandma loved to give, so this jar reminds me of her. 

         I slide into the overstuffed chair after placing the jar and the box on the shelf.  I let my mind drift through memories of her.  I can hear the tone of her voice, her laugh.  I see her and my grandfather's wedding picture in my mind's eye.  She was so brave to travel halfway across the world to marry him.  She was a woman whose life was given to the service of God and others, first in Finland, then in Uruguay, and finally, Spain.  I think of the lovely moments we had this fall to just sit with her and Grandpa and hear stories from their youth.  I am so thankful for that time.  And I am thankful that she is no longer in pain and no longer suffering from physical limitations.  I am thankful for the hope of seeing her again one day.  Regardless of that hope, I cry, because I have never been good at goodbyes.  But that is why I am sitting in the hug of this overstuffed chair in the room of losses, for my grandmother passed away last night and I ache. 

In Memory of Mikko

As we walk through a perfect summer day, our footsteps crunch on the gravel road. No one speaks. I only see the photographer snapping shots of our black-clad entourage following the casket as I glance at the rows of upright gravestones decorated with potted flowers and protected by low hedges. The sun beats down on black jackets, but isn't strong enough to dry the tears that keep running from reddened eyes. "...a good friend," I hear repeatedly as the impressive flower arrangements are placed over the fresh grave and I stare at fishnet stockings under a long black skirt.

I wonder what it's like for her to suddenly wake up in the morning, and not see him there after fourty-four years of marriage. I can hear in her voice that it is not easy, that it's lonely; that it has been good to have the funeral preparations to keep her busy, since silence and solitude can be such overwhelming company when they bring with them fresh grief and sense of loss. She tells how she spent the last days at the hospital by his side, holding his hand even as he slept, and praying together in his waking hours. Her voice cracks in the microphone as she says her thanks to those present, poised in spite of her sadness, but ending with hope.

All things should end with hope, for it empowers and is life-giving even in the face of death. For there is hope of seeing him again, because he belongs to the One who is the creator and sustainer of all life. To the One who redeemed human life through his Son. Hope anchored in the love of the Father is never misplaced, because even during the times that we feel we can't bear to put another foot forward, we can know that we are not alone. We are not orphaned or without comfort, because He is near to the hurting and brokenhearted.

Last Night

Life, brief.
She, gone.
I, pensive.
They, crying.
Today, coping.
Tomorrow, same.
Death, separation.
Grief, surrounding.
Comfort, shallow.
Numbness, yes.
Words, silent.
They, here.
I, present.
She, gone.
Life, altered.

*For Soile and her family*

with you

I don't have words
but I would give you
my hand to hold
and my shoulder to
lean on, a quiet moment
for your sorrow to
find release in tears
that soak into my
shirt. If that would
make your heart lighter
I wouldn't mind getting
drenched in a torrent
of drops and memories.
And if I would only
be in the way, then
know that I am holding
you from the distance, up
into Arms that are
the strongest and a
Heart that loves the most.