As human beings, we are living life to learn to be divinely confident, just like cummings' flowers in "who knows if the moon's a balloon." We achieve godliness, Eternal Life, Nirvana or whatever name you choose to call the perfection of the Best Self when we can confidently and honestly say, "I belong here, in this beautiful, creative, eternal place, because I am beautiful, creative and eternal." We can pick ourselves, too.
ever wonder what God's grace looks like? sometimes, it looks like this:
Pretty Girl, Sweet Pea, and Handsome Boy. #childrenareart
pondering the last six years and talking with Mom and Dad about the intersection of "gay" and "mormon" #lifewasshaken #thechoosingwasnot
realizing that love and family loyalty are more powerful than tradition or doctrine #thisisourfamily #justdontletitgo
dinner with Mission Companion and his beautiful wife #thosegood&crazypeople #mymarriedfriends
chatting with Kim and sensing we see many things with similar feelings. #nooneisalone
comparing the history of your one wild and precious life with that of another #makestheormeanmore
these pictures of grace remind me of where i'd've blindly and miserably gone had i been a weaker being. thanks be to all things sacred and profane heaven's been holding my hand, lighting my eyes, leading my heart.
(also, sometimes his shows are my scriptures #lessonsfromSondheim)
I have beautiful nieces. I call them Pretty Girl and Sweet Pea. They are happy, confident, inquisitive, kind little girls. They are creative and intelligent. They love to sing. They like to wrestle with their daddy and their uncles. They love good treats and they just can't dance enough!
I love Sundays when we gather together at my Mom and Dad's house. We usually have a great big roast beef dinner with mashed potates and gravy, freshly baked rolls, vegetables from the summer's bounty (fresh or frozen, depending on the season), and, always, splendid and decadent desserts.
So, yesterday, after we cleaned the table of dirty dishes and put left-over food in the fridge, my little girls decided we needed to have a dance party. I was happy to oblige, even though I've been very sick with some long and heavy lung affliction. Needing an explosive opening for our dance-fest, we, of course, YouTubed our theme song, Katy Perry's "Firework." A niece in each of my arms, we three gyrated round the living room, singing "Baby, you're a firework! Come on, show'em what your worth!" at the top of our lungs, the girls throwing their heads back with smiles of glee. We danced and danced and danced. I called for anything that had a great groove (MIKA and Billy Joel and Shakira and Ricky Martin and Maroon 5), but the girls always wanted to go back to Firework. There's just something about it being our song, I guess.
Well, Uncle Nic eventually got pretty sweaty and pretty tired. I drank something like three glasses of water and the girls sat in front of the computer watching this:
I think Sweet Pea was quite surprised to see actual fireworks spurting from the chests of the people in the video. She just turned two years old, and symbolism is a bridge she has yet to cross. "Why are they doing that?" she asked.
"Well," I said, "that's kind of like the love in their hearts. It's a way they can show how much they love themselves and their friends and families."
"Like mine firework?" she gestured toward her own chest.
"Do you have a firework in there?" I bent down and also pointed to her chest.
My little Sweet Pea smiled and gestured again, "Yes, right in here. It's peeple (purple) firework. See it?"
"Yeah. I see it, Honey Girl," I replied.
Pretty Girl was up and dancing again and Sweet Pea decided to join her. I had to smile as I watched these two little, absolutely beautiful people spinning and dancing and laughing and singing with sheer joy to each other, "Make'em go-oh 'Oh! Oh! Oh!' as you shoot across the sky sky sky!" I taught them the song because it was a catchy tune, but it was really wonderful to see them learning some of the lessons the song teaches: Know where your heart is. Find things that bring you joy. Trust your light. Share the love you feel. Brighten the sky.
your double thumb
hiking the mountains together behind your house
you feed the animals every morning
breakfast
when you call me out of the blue for lunch at greasy diners
attempting to teach me how to drive a manual transmission
patience
you believe in Mom, in your boys, and in God
watching the Jungle book
your little Curtis phrases
i look good in a three piece suit because you look great in a three piece suit (genetics were kind!)
you gave me great eyebrows, good hair and a high level of confidence
all our recitals, soccer games, plays and other various projects
grilling steaks
camping trips and scout camps
shoveling snow
skiing
reminders to check my oil and tires
you're nice to my friends
popcorn and movies
spring picnics and Kentucky Fried in Logan canyon
you always build people and places, you never tear them down
you always answer my calls when i'm out of town, just in case i might be calling with car trouble
if i'm nervous or stressed or afraid, if i see you i feel relieved
I never imagined I'd spend every day of my life with Asian classmates or Asian professors, but I should've guessed. I'm a music student in the US. Conservatories and schools are full with with promising young students from the Orient. Competitions are won every weekend, and the prizewinners? Soloists from Taiwan, Japan, Korea and China whose note-perfect renditions of Lizst's Transcendental Etudes and Chopin's Ballades and Mozart's Sonatas and Bach's Fugues leave anyone who listened breathless, yet often emotionally unmoved.
My professor, Dr. Yang, has a six-year old student name Richie. I'm not sure what his ethnic heritage is, but he is a beautiful little black-haird, almond eyed little boy. He'll probably be the next Mozart. He played a Haydn Concerto for me today, and I was so impressed by his playing. I think I was even more impressed, though, when he and his 2-year old brother were running past me and some string-playing friends, chasing and laughing at each other in their own little language, an amalgamation of something like Cantonese and English.
They were so full of joy. They were so innocently happy. I remembered how some things make life sweet.
Even though Richie will probably be competing against my own future students and winning state and national competitions, both he and his little brother made me want to figure out how to have my own little ones, someday, running down the hall of some music school, making tired conservatory students smile.
When your family is in Arizona because your brother and his wife and two little girls are moving, and you're at home alone, at the foothill of the mountain with a snow-packed and -drifted lane, your lungs rigid with bronchitis, it's super nice to get a call at 10 PM from your aunt next door, letting you know that she and her husband, your dad's youngest brother, will be over in an instant, ready to drive you to the doctor or the ER or just bring you soup, if you think you need it.
It's good to know you can count on family. Thanks, Nancy.
I drove home last week to have lunch with my cute mom and dad. After discussing our common ground and diverging thoughts on Boyd K. Packer's talk, I smiled at my parents and teased, "Well just look at our little Mormon modern family: you've got a son who's gay, a son who's married to a non-member, a son who's currently being pursued by (gasp) a fabulous black girl, and a son who'd travel back in time to 1890 just so he could farm and earn a living at it. Who would've thought?"
We shared a laugh, and then my mom said, "Yeah. Not quite what we pictured, but it's what we've got. And we love each of you, no matter what."
No, life doesn't always comply with the picture you paint in your head. I'm quite certain my parents envisioned a completely different outcome when they first embarked on the process of rearing a family. But, being the beautiful people they are, they've adjusted their vision, walked forward in faith and shown us that love is really all you need.
Now, I know I can't take responsibility for having taken part in creating these two precious girls, nor do I lay parental claim on their upbringing, but I love them.
This quote from Brian Andreas sums up the realization I came to while my nieces were here (one of them twice!) in September--
There are lives I can imagine without children but none of them have the same laughter & noise.
Just a few days ago, Gavin and I were lounging on the sofas in front of the flat screen downstairs. Having wrestled the remote from him after suggesting he was in dire need of a hot shower (he smelled like the dairy farm where he works), I flipped through the channels, trying to find an episode of Dr. Who or something else of equal "interesting" or "intellectually expansive" factors. It was a Saturday afternoon and not much was garnering my attention. I passed over the SciFi and Spike channels and began the fascinating journey through The Discovery Channel, The Learning Channel and --that sometimes frightening place on the wavelength which reminds me why I'm glad I grew up human -- Animal Planet.
Nothing was catching my eye, and I was about ready to give the remote back to Gav; however, as we passed through more nature documentaries than Jane Goodall could dream of, I saw it as I almost skimmed over Planet Green -- one of those words that enraptures all gays -- that divine and flashy adjective: FABULOUS!!!
Gavin groaned, "Mom and I saw a commercial about this. It's some new show about gay farmers."
I grinned. "Let's see what this about," I teased as I put the remote down and settled into a pile of embroidered pillows.
Gavin rolled his eyes, but then he got comfortable, too. I think he was, perhaps, intrigued by the premise of a couple of queers prancing about a gorgeous farm and, although he'll never admit this, I think (and I would have never imagined it) he's kind of started to like watching some of my shows with me. What Not to Wear. Chelsea Lately. Glee. He always, always, always pulls up an armchair when I'm watching those McKinley High kids overexert their ice-pack-me-right-after-this-take-is-finished vocal chords on Hulu. I've even found Rachel Berry and Finn Hudson's Journey duet (among others) on iTunes. I haven't bought any of the albums.
So. Anyway. We're watching and the gents are introducing themselves. Brent's the former VP of Martha Stewart's something and Josh used to be a drag-queen. This could get a little uncomfortable for Gav, I thought. Maybe I really should find something else to watch. And then, the moment for which no one would have been prepared: we meet Farmer Jo, a bald, hefty, rural upstate New Yorker. He has been hired on as the gentlemen farmers' goatkeeper. He's talking about how if it weren't for Brent and Josh and the Beekman farm, he'd have lost the goats and how much he loves his animals and he starts crying!!! I looked over at Gavin. He looked at me. We burst out laughing and watched the next three episodes of The Fabulous Beekman Boys, giggling together for another 90 minutes.
The New York Times may not agree, but I kind of know that shows are brilliant when Gavin and I -- from two completely different molds -- can bond over watching them. The fact that Gavin, in his muck boots and manure suit, and I, in my skinny jeans and hair paste, can sit and see facets of ourselves and each other in this stupid reality television show; the fact that we can giggle about how we do or don't fit into the stereotypes of cowboy or farmer or sensitive or gay man; or the fact that we can discuss our experience with having used or being the target of derogations like redneck and fag after watching this particular TV show is really incredible.
Who knew the gays and the rural backwater boys could enjoy the same thing so much?
To steal a line from a great Tome Waits song “...It's a palace for sure.”
Every single member of my family was under the same roof for the past week. It's been lovely to have Mom and Dad, me, Matt and Claren and Jayden and Andi, Austin, and Gavin together. We haven't spent this long a time with each other for six years.
A lot has happened in that span of time: I left to serve in PA. Matt went to Phoenix to study diesel mechanics. I came home and moved to Ogden. Austin left to serve in the Dominican Republic. Mom moved an entire cosmetology school twice. I was one half of a horribly dysfunctional, thankfully dissolved engagement. Matt and Claren got married. Jayden arrived. Austin left. Gavin boycotted the public school system and started his stint with home-schooling and then boycotted home-schooling and went back to public school. I moved home. Andi was born. I moved back to Ogden. Gavin overturned his Jeep. Austin came home (a week ago!). Dad has been constant and sure the entire time and Mom has enjoyed most of the ride.
I was reminded of how much I love my family. This photo is probably the best representation of all the happy feelings I've felt in their company this week. It has been as pure a joy for me as riding my shoulders was for my niece.
I thank God for my family and that there is love in our house, this palace: our home.
Saturday, May 15, 2010
We were getting ready to cut the dog's hair and Sammy, my parents' Yorkshire terrier, went into hiding amidst piles of sorted laundry as I looked in the mudroom cupboard for the clippers my mother uses to trim his coat.
Mom was standing near the kitchen table, her five-month-old iPhone in her hand. "Your brother taught me how to use the iTunes last night," she said. "I have to show you the first song I bought." She was excited to show me the song she had purchased, Bucky Covington's song, "A Father's Love." I'd never heard of the singer, let alone the song, as I'm not much interested in listening to a wide array of country music. I was trying, unsuccessfully, to coax the dog into out of the laundry pile when the son started playing; I was in tears, dog in hand, by the second stanza.
He checked the air in my tires,
The belts and all the spark plug wires;
Said "When the hell's the last time you had this oil changed?"
And as I pulled out the drive he said, "Be sure and call your mom sometime."
And I didn't hear it then, but I hear it now:
He was saying "I love you" the only way he knew how.
I was hit by these lyrics because they describe exactly what my dad does for me every time I come home. He checks the air in my tires, opens the hood and putters around, and--word for word--asks, "When the hell's the last time you had this oil changed?" The song finished playing, I held Sammy in my lap, and Mom proceeded to share with me how she'd played the song for Dad the night before( which inspired about the same reaction in him as it did me); he asked afterward if he'd said "I love you" to his sons frequently enough when we were growing up.
I looked at a hangnail on my finger and smiled, as this brought to mind a rigorous and flaying conversation I'd had with an acquaintance concerned about my life choices about a month earlier. I said, "Well, I made sure to tell Sister So-and-So that Dad has always been very conscious about letting us know he loves us, that we've heard those words from him many times."
"What are you talking about?"
I wrestled with the anxious dog in my lap. "Oh, about a month ago she waited for me after an afternoon performance the trio gave. Said I was 'just the young man she wanted to visit with.' Corralled me into an unoccupied, 'more private' room for a discussion she wanted to have. Where she told me why being gay is the same as being 'sexually broken.' And said she could offer me help with selecting a Church-affiliated counselor and a reformative program. So I could be healed."
I wasn't sure if my mom would try to change the subject of if she'd agree with the other woman's opinion; I wasn't really certain of anything, as any mention of the word "gay" draws up tension for my mom and for me. The clippers buzzed on and Sammy whimpered. "You're kidding! I can say stuff like that to you, but no one else can! Who in the world does she--?" I was comforted by my mother's defending, angry response. "What else did she say?"
I maneuvered the dog so Mom could shear those hard-to-reach places and explained how Sister So-and-So informed me that same-gender attraction is not caused by genetics or biological functions, but that it is the result for boys who grow up without an involved father; who lack positive masculine role-models in their early lives; who seek out positive male-to-male touch in adult relationships because they don't feel completely male because their daddies didn't hug them enough when they were little boys.
I explained how I let Sister So-and-So know that my dad had never been shy about giving my brothers and me hugs; that he'd never been slack in saying, "I love you;" that both he and my mom have always been supportive of the activities in which their children participate. "Mom, I was very clear in telling her how great a father Dad was--how great a father he is. That I don't think it's Dad's fault--or your fault--that I'm gay." I laughed, "It really blew the wind out of her sails."
"That just makes me so mad," Mom spat. "What nerve!"
"I know, Mom. I was really upset about it, too," I agreed. Sammy kicked, "Be careful -- don't nick your dog!"
"Sorry, Sammy."
We kept talking as she finished up Sammy's haircut. It felt good for both of us. It had been a long time since that had happened.
I learned some things:
My parents are processing this. They may not like it, but they love me and they will defend me as they always have.
Sister So-and-So was acting out of love, even if she was sneaky and horribly misguided in the way she offered her opinions; however, Sister So-and-So was also ashamed that we were having the conversation. She waited around for everyone to leave before she said she wanted to speak with me. She looked for a quiet room, out of the way, where no one could find or interrupt us. She cowered and looked over her shoulder at every sound. "Did someone just walk by? Did anybody see us in here?"
My response to that kind of sneaky, secretive, shadow-filled "assistance" is this: I'm Mormon. I'm gay. I'm unashamed. If you want to talk about those dualities, let's have the discussion out in the open. No secrets. No shame. No judgment from you. No judgment from me.
And lastly, my parents' parenting of me did not direct or lead me to be attracted to other men. There is nothing we can blame "the gay" on. It just is. It's something I've felt since I can remember feeling, and it's something I'll feel for the rest of my life. No one should ever have to justify their feelings, or try to blame what they feel on anyone else.
I've become a man, confident and content as any, but I forget to change the oil in my car. I don't often press a gauge against the valve to see how much air is in the tire. Dad reminds me to do those things. It's just another way he keeps saying, "I love you." I'm happy he still does.
I locked my heart to the holiday spirit this year. Yes, I played in holiday concerts and yes, I wished everyone holiday cheer, but I just didn't want to feel it. But Christmas is insidious, winding and slithering its way into the heart of even the most stony Scrooge, and there were a few nights when I was caught up in the glimmering, hearty holiday and invited to ponder on the reasons why Christmas is so special.
Sam (my cellist), Katie (my violinist) and I (our pianist) were finishing finishing up a Tria Fata rehearsal last Monday. It had been a great rehearsal -- we'd made some noticeable progress in the Mendelssohn C Minor, and the Babadjanian was just as exciting as ever; an added bonus: Sam's fiancee, Anna, had done a superb job of turning my pages. As Sam was putting his cello back in its case, he said we'd been invited to play in "a living room concert" at the home of one of his students. Katie wasn't too keen on the idea, and my only focus after a rehearsal is finding the nearest place to eat, but we decided we'd all go after, of course, finding Nic some food. We needed the practice performing anyway, as we were preparing for an upcoming competition in Hawaii.
We giggled in the car on the ride over about Katie's newest crush and told her she should just go for it! I smiled as Anna scolded Sam over driving too fast around the icy corners of the twisty canyon. And we all fawned over the loveliness of Anna's lemon-head-scented lotion while slathering it over our arms and hands.
We finally drove up to a beautifully lit, big and inviting house, its long front drive packed with minivans and SUV's. It was a gorgeous house. We're playing in there? I thought. We've played in mansions before, but this takes the cake. A walkaround porch framed the perimeter, and large windows let their lights spill out on the snowy ground. We knocked on the the heavy wooden door, soon to be ushered into a large foyer littered with shoes and coats and mittens of all sizes. A brawling herd of five- and six-year olds ran, zipping around us to climb the stairs as we added own winter wear to the haphazard collection. A big black lab sniffed at our instrument cases, and deciding we weren't a threat, wagged his tail and licked at our hands. Paintings of a beautiful mother and each of her seven children smiled warmly, looked thoughtfully and embraced us quietly as we walked down a short hallway to the kitchen and music room where everyone was gathered.
I was buzzing with the invisible, effervescent pillars of joy pulsating throughout the house full of adults and teenagers and children, all gathered to sample holiday treats and listen to a myriad of carols played by an array of performers. I could not stop smiling. Anna was standing next to me, "Can you feel the happiness?" I asked her. She turned and looked at me, grinning that specifically elvish, Anna-grin. "Yes," she whispered. The mother-in-the-paintings came from the kitchen to greet us, welcoming us and telling us about the little girl who was at the piano, playing an Easy Note version of Jingle Bells. She halted every time a new line of music began; she played a few bad notes; her rhythms weren't always perfect, but when she stood up, she was beaming. So was everybody else, and we applauded like we'd just heard Krystian Zimmerman perform Beethoven's three last Sonatas at Carnegie Hall. It was supreme, and it was delightful.
We heard all sorts of performances that night, all of them accompanied by the racket of boys chasing each other on the floors above us. Some performers were beginners. Others were a bit more experienced. Some played classically rendered holiday favorites, others were a bit more down-home and twangy. We heard fathers playing violin duets with their young daughters; middle-school girls singing sweet hymns penned by Christina Rosetti; and we watched young mothers directing their toddling youngsters in dances about Santa Claus and sugar-plum fairies.
We were announced, and we went to the front of the room. As Sam and Katie set up their chairs and stands, I stood up to say a few words.
"Oh, you guys," I said to the room full of happy people sitting on folding chairs from the nearest ward building, "We have had so much fun watching and listening to all of you who've performed! As a trio, we play a lot of music over and over and over, trying to get it just perfect. Sometimes we forget that music can be just a lot of fun. Each of you has had so much fun! Sometimes we classical musicians need reminding that music can bring people together, like it's done for all of us tonight. Thanks so much of reminding us of that."
And then we played parts of our Mendelssohn and Babadajanian. It wasn't seasonal music by any means. We couldn't really hear each other. We couldn't really see each other. But we played, and we loved it. And our audience loved it. And it didn't matter that babies were crying or that dogs were barking or that the dishwasher was running on its highest cycle. We were making music in a house that was brimming with love and merriness and cheer, and that was what we all needed.
The holidays are special because they do give us what we need -- Christmas invites us to take time to reflect upon the love in our lives. It gives us means to recognize the need we have to share love with others. As my best friend, Corey, put it in his blog,
"No matter who you are, how you were made (or how you believe you were made), or how people treat you, there are good people out there that love you in this world. There is no greater Christmas lesson than that."
I'm so glad I was reminded of this lesson in time to appreciate spending my Christmas with the people I love most. I hope you had Yourself a Merry Little Christmas, too.
I walked over to a rack where Jenny was fingering the green scarf she had worn earlier as well as another in a deep maroon shade.
"Ok, Jen," I said, using my most commanding voice, "You're getting the coat."
"But I can't--"
"No, not another word. We're doing this for you because you deserve something nice. It's about time somebody treated you to a thing like this, and we're doing it. Somebody grab that coat before somebody else does. Corey, give Jules your twenty. I'll give her what I've got, too. Jen, you get yourself a couple of scarves. They're two for twelve. You can afford that, right?"
"Yeah, I think so," came the shocked response. "You don't have to do this."
"We know," Corey and Jules both said.
"We're doing it because we want to do something good for you. How did you feel when you put the coat and the scarf on?" Jules asked. "Pretty great, didn't you?"
"Yeah, I did."
"Then let us get it for you."
"I'll pay you guys back when I get a little bit of money. Really? You're really doing this?" Jenny couldn't believe it.
I loved every bit. "You bet we are, my dear."
We walked up to the register, where Julyn bought the coat. We walked out to the car, where Jenny promptly put it on. We arrived at the reception just barely in time to see the ring ceremony.
I've thought a lot about how great it made me feel to do something like this for Jenny. I didn't feel any anxiety about giving up a chunk of money that could have paid for a tank of gasoline of a couple of nice dinners with friends. I wasn't worried that I may not see that money come back to me for a while. I wasn't upset about any of that because I was so happy to see my friend happy because she felt good about how she looked. It was totally worth it.
We often hear about people giving the clothes off their backs to show love and support, and Jenny has always done that for all of our friends. She has been one of the first to show love and the last to mete out condemnation when any of us have struggled. She is a beautiful individual, and I want her to see herself as such. I guess, in a small way, we kind of did that for Jen when we bought a coat to put on her back. We did it because we're old friends. We did it, because, really, when it boils down, we've become family. And families -- including the ones we create outside our biological ones -- work best when we build each other up and help each other feel our bests.
when sleep won’t weight my eyes with heavy insignificance,
I remember other, older nights
when my child-legs, throbbing with small pains,
led me to the cotton-counted valley
your bodies spared
for me.
soothing oil
palmed across my aching calves and thighs
sleep-slurred sighs
promised I’d wake to waffles in the morning
star-glazed windowpanes weep for 3 AM
I could sleep there,
in the breathing inbetween
where your bodies moved like lungs
to keep me safe,
and small.
I wasn't sure why I woke to the dark last Tuesday morning (October 20), around 1:45. One o'clock isn't usually my waking hour -- usually, that's around 3:30, so I wasn't sure why I was up. I mused, trying to remember if I'd had any unusual dreams or nightmares which would have unsettled my sleep. My dream-memory was as blank as the starless sky. I did, however, remember a poem, above, which I had written for a class last semester, and I coveted the sleep of three-year-olds. I've always wondered at how little children can sleep: there are no nagging worries steeping in their easy sleep. They know that they are small, and fit within the borders of blankets, pillows and beds. There is a safety in that tiny knowledge, and thus, children peacefully dream.
So I was up, and questioning why. I had been worried about Mom for days. She'd stayed with Grandma almost every night the week before, and I had sat with both of them Sunday night. Watching Grandma dwindle and shrink into herself had been taxing on me, and I knew that it must be as wretched as it was sweet for Mom. I was concerned for all of us, and figured that was why I was awake.
The phone rang at about a quarter past two. I switched my bedside lamp on, turned to face my brother's bed and said, "Gavin, I think that's the call telling us Grandma has passed." Mom came downstairs about five minutes later and confirmed my thoughts. It was a relief, almost, to hear that Grandma had finally let go and passed on. She had finally allowed herself to die-- some sort of knowledge of what lies beyond had been given her, I think. It freed her from the tension, fear, pain and confusion which balled her fists and beat her heart those last few weeks. She had been so afraid of dying, but she held on to peace Tuesday morning and just fell asleep, taking comfort in knowing she would fit wherever it is she would be going.
I've thought a lot about life and death and faith and eternity, and I feel a part of all things and I feel a part of no thing. I am in awe of everything making sense: my life, Grandma's death, Mom's faith, God's eternity. The sleeping of babies. I've slept well every night this week.
That last post was taken from a Facebook note, dated October 7. My grandma was able to sit up on her own. She could speak and chew and eat and swallow. She recognized us as her family, calling us by name, and she loved having my little niece in her bedroom that sublime, sacred Sunday evening.
I sit, now two weeks later, after having sat with my mother in Grandma's room earlier this evening, listening to her slow, uneven, shuddering breaths and small moans and sighs. It is a difficult experience to describe, witnessing the weakening and darkening of the loved one who was so solid and full of sunlight and smiles. I remember staying overnight at Grandma and Grandpa's with my cousins. We'd record our "Radio Shows" on tapes Grandma saved for us. Grandpa was a chronic tease -- he liked to slap our feet and spit out his teeth (and it always made me nervous when they shot out!). We'd wake in the morning to pancakes with rabbit ears, bubbling syrup, scrambled eggs and hot chocolate made with evaporated milk.
I've watched her decline as I've helped care for her over the past few months, but tonight's visit left me reeling. She's on morphine for the pain. The only really noticeable response we see from her happens when we have to turn her in an effort to reduce the indignity of bedsores. Her eyes, usually heavy-lidded anymore, open bright-wide and fish scale blue (not her eyes at all), and her eyebrows slant in a voiceless agony. It's hard on all of us.
Tonight, I entered Grandma's bedroom after Mom sat down on the hospital bed we recently traded with the one my grandparents had slept in for years. Mom was leaning over, stroking Grandma's face and calling her "Mamma." An overwhelming sense of wonder, as well as a desire to shield my own mother from the unconscious and open pain written on her mother's face flew up in front of me, and I was almost ready to weep or run or collapse. I stepped up behind Mom, making sure I didn't step on any tubing or anything like that, and told Grandma I was there. I don't really know if she saw me -- her eyes were so dim and milky, filmy with the morphine and fevery dehydration, I guess -- but she did turn her face toward my voice a bit, and, after a little coaxing, gave me a brief, fleeting smile. I felt so tender I had to leave the room for a minute.
In the end, I was there for about an hour and a half. I've cried for 3 days. I've thought a lot about death, and the divorce that splits the body and the spirit or essence of a person when death happens. The divorce of death is as ugly and hard and terribly powerful as any divorce I've ever heard of. It seems to me, in seeing the struggle my Grandma is experiencing, that the body and the spirit do not want to give each other up, though their separation is inevitable. I think our bodies are such incredible creations, giving our spirits a wonder-ful vehicle for feeling and emotion and physical sensation; I also think our bodies crave the energy of our spirits. Can you imagine not having a body? I believe one of the reasons death is so difficult is because we really can't imagine not having a body, even if it is weary of its 80-some-odd years. I'm seeing this in my thin Grandma. It's 2 AM, and I don't think I'm making sense, but that's what it is.
She's not going gentle -- she's trying to so much to stay here, for whatever reason. I wish I could whisper to her peace and tender to her release, if not for her sake, at least for us, the heavy-hearted who have been watching.
You finish watching movies like "Seven Pounds" with no one but yourself and a roll of plush toilet paper plucked from the nearest bathroom (because, once engrossed in the film, Kleenexes cannot be got), late at night when you should have gone to bed two and a half hours ago, and the tears are drying in the corners of your eyes: your spirit clears, becomes a pensive pool of heavy thoughts, beautifully garbed -- like enigmatic goldfish you see swimming in black-bottomed garden ponds, breathtaking as they rise to the surface in red and white and yellow -- and you ponder the cutting divinities and sweet inbalances of your life. One thought -- one sinuous, shimmering fish -- catches you, and you study it for a moment that seems to speak for hours. And then, if your name is Nicholas Maughan, you write a Facebook note to understand it, and secretly hope somebody reads it and understands it, too.
My brother, my exceptionally pregnant sister-in-law and my niece arrived from Phoenix last Friday, visiting with the feeling that this, perhaps, may be the last time they will see our Grandma. We had quite a lovely time with each other: joking and teasing and arguing and eating and eating and eating and just being a family. My two-year-old niece woos me with ever more skillful practice each time I see her, and neither of us can conceal our glee at our rendezvous for very long. I loved watching my 16-year-old brother as he giggled and napped with her; I smiled at my parents, relishing their new(er) roles as proud and contented grandparents; I felt a subtle joy (and a keening for my own "someday") when I saw my brother quietly touch his wife's arm or tender some other silent affirmation of "I love being your husband."
Anyhow, the seven of us spent about an hour and a half at Grandma's house Sunday night. An uncle, who had been with her before we arrived, said his goodbyes shortly after we walked inside the door. Grandma has recently begin confusing this uncle with my Grandpa, who passed away. "Why don't you just come back after you've finished up? Isn't this your home?" she timidly asked him. I looked at Mom, who looked at me, and we both kind of smiled that smile which says, We'll get through this as gracefully as we can. And then, my happy little niece walked in the room, talking and laughing and calling for my mom, "Gamma! Gamma!" and I saw the first real smile on my Grandma's face I've seen in months as she said, "Isn't she just beautiful? She's so cute!"
We took photos of Mom, Grandma, my sister-in-law and her daughter and pictures of my brothers and me sitting with Grandma. I remember thinking that the only person missing was our own Elder Maughan, away in the Dominican Republic. But I kept thinking, too, about the strange and beautiful, bittersweet place we were in: We were a family in the middle of all the parts of life -- my niece, really just beginning her human experience; my 16-year-old brother, turning into a young man; my brother and his wife, readying themselves to welcome another soul into this world as they try to provide for the one they already have; myself, discontent and struggling through my twenties to find some peace and confidence; my parents, watching their children as we fashion our adult lives, wincing as we make choices they may not always understand, and beaming when they can sense our happinesses; and my grandma, at the end of her life. Her body is getting so small, and her mind is stealing away into confusion, but there are times when I still see her, times when she recognizes her Self. We were ALL THERE that Sunday night, in a perfect circle of life and finding ourselves present in the power of our abundant love.
I've had this particular thought swirl to the surface -- my beloved little koi-thought -- many times since Sunday: I know I was there, experiencing that, but at the same time, I wasn't. I was one who saw, a spectator. I saw everything. It was one of these moments when God gives you His eyes, and maybe you see your life the way He sees it, with the Truth, and you trust that everything is right.
I think that God gives this gift of Seeing constantly, more often than we're willing to recognize. It's too delicate and too sharp to have floating in my awareness all the time, but man, how I search for these lucid and breathtaking moments of awe infinitum.
