Grief is for People

After The Swimmers, I read Grief is for People, by Sloane Crosley, checked out from the library at the same time, and also the right book for the right moment. She's writing about randomly connecting the loss (by theft via home invasion) of some jewelry and the loss (by suicide) of a dear friend. "Grief is for people, not things," she says early on in the book, but the connection remains understandable all the way through. She does some risky things--her own detective work, going to Australia to jump off a cliff--but they make perfect sense, too. I really liked her prose style, and will seek out her fiction and essays.

Did these two books suddenly release me? I haven't been writing much lately, nor submitting poems, but this weekend I finished revising a short play and submitted it and also sent 4 poems to a contest. By chance, these submissions both had deadlines days away. Maybe not by chance? Have I become a procrastinator, motivated mainly by deadlines? Or was I inspired by Spenser Davis, who gave a lively, funny, and informative talk about playwriting at Heartland Theatre on Thursday night?

Possibly I was emboldened by this little girl, proud of her ability to stand up on her own in her playpen, and who is practicing walking now, too! Lately, I've been wanting to try new things, like writing songs--the music, not just the lyrics. Or learning tai chi. It seems impossible--I am way too busy!--but also perfectly possible--I could make room! I could change my life!

I've written before, and told people, relentlessly, about how I conflated the loss of our house with the loss of my mother. So it's no wonder I connected with Crosley's book. I was at the hospital with my mom in the morning, attended her transition to hospice care that afternoon, and drove to our house to meet Two Men and a Truck for the last load. That was the end. "Heavy is the enchantment of places you know you will never see again," says Sloane Crosley. 

Yes, but the very next day I flew to Oregon for the birth of my grandbaby. I feel lighthearted at the thought of Lola seeing a whole new world, and me seeing it again through her eyes. I'll be flying out again soon to see her. And here she is with her arms out like wings. 

Swimming in Grief

I'm swimming laps again this summer, as I've done for many years now, early in the morning, as exercise and meditation. I swim in the pool where I took swimming lessons and did water ballet as a child. After the first few lessons, when she watched us and/or read a book, my mother often dropped us off and picked us up, wet, later. Lately, swimming has helped me stay calm, rehearse things I have to do later in the day, let go of everything, and grieve. It's eight months since my mother died, and it surprises me how fresh the grief may be, in tiny moments, and insistent, like rain.

I am also reading a lot, and reading the right book at the right time. Today, I found The Swimmers, by Julie Otsuka, and it's, of course, perfect. There's a woman in it named Alice, with mild dementia. "And even though she may not remember the combination to her locker or where she put her towel, the moment she slips into the water she knows what to do." This fits with what I just learned in Remember, by Lisa Genova, about how and what we remember. 

So far The Swimmers seems to be in a community voice, a "we" voice. "And when we are finished with our laps we hoist ourselves up out of the pool, dripping and refreshed, our equilibrium restored, ready to face another day on land." While I don't hoist myself up--I swim over to a ladder--I agree with all the rest of this! And, in keeping with water ballet, I am again awake to the synchronities of life and in my reading.

I'm reading The Bad-Ass Librarians of Timbuktu for the non-fiction book group at the library, about saving ancient manuscripts, and I just read (or re-read, as I think I read it as a teen, or part of it) Out of Africa, by Isak Dinesen, for the adult reading challenge, where July = Africa. I'm aware of the irony of reading two books about Africa by white writers. At least I had already read some others on the list and the display by Black or African authors. With Out of Africa, I was consciously seeking out the author's voice to see 1) why this book is considered her masterpiece 2) what colonialism it carries in tone. Yes, the colonialism is there, along with a deep love and respect for the country and its peoples, and its animals, even the ones she shot. I was comforted when she moved past killing them to watching them.

Contemplating the Africa theme, I'd thought I'd like to learn more about Mali, as my parents housed a young man from Mali several years ago when he came to the United States to get his undergraduate and graduate degrees. He is still a family friend. Timbuktu is in Mali, so yay! I am learning a lot. I can ask if he's read this book in my next letter!

It surprised me--but why, given all the synchronicity lately? and the "plot," as I knew she would be leaving the continent--to find this in Out of Africa, which resonated with the loss of my childhood home: "In this way began for me a strange era in my existence on the farm. The truth, that was underlying everything, was that it was no longer mine, but such as it was, this truth could be ignored by the people incapable of realizing it, and it made no difference to things from day to day. It was then, from hour to hour, a lesson in the art of living in the moment, or, it might be said, in eternity, wherein the actual happenings of the moment make but little difference." This sounds like the emotional denial I witnessed in my dad, and the strange near numbness I sometimes felt, but I was most struck by the living-in-the-moment connection, for that is how I grieved and am still grieving, disconnected from linear time, and from my former self, but, yes, in the moment.

I go back to the moment of swimming. And to this line from The Swimmers: "The moment I see that painted black line I feel fine."

OK, and also this moment! Lola in the water. Eight months old and crawling. In love with her parents and with the world. Always in the moment!

Constantly countering my grief is my joy, from the moment Lola entered the world and my mother left it.

Okay, Fine!

OK, fine. The book that was making me laugh out loud made me burst into tears in the final chapter. Yes, I sort of knew it was coming, because she's a good writer, and I'm alive in the real world, and this is what happens. Then I got to laugh while crying, thanks to the phrase, "Stupid useless calimari heart valve*," which makes perfect sense in context. 

*But I will definitely be asking the heart valve doctor some important questions, thanks to this book, Sandwich, by Catherine Newman. My first question will be "Plastic or pig?" (or "Artificial or organic?," referring to what the replacement heart valve that my father might be considering will be made of. I will try not to ask, "Or calimari?" I believe in real life the calimari was being replaced with pig in a restaurant, not a hospital...But the heart valve might belong to the magical animal known as the pig.**)

**Simpson's reference

Meanwhile, it's still super hot here, and, evidently, in Portland, OR, where Lola has been given pink sunglasses and looks cool but  also dubious and hot. The pink octopus pal is good if you are teething, both head and tentacles.

Also, read this book if you have ever eaten a sandwich at the beach. Or been scared of sharks.

Also meanwhile, I celebrated the solstice last night in my friend Kim's back yard! My friend Devon recommended a ritual involving 9 flowers, which I found in my own yard afterwards, and a wish...or vision...?  (I had been drinking sugar-free gin & tonics...) 

Based on my wish, all shall be well! Happy still full Strawberry Moon!

Joy Sandwich

I am full of joy these days, thanks to Lola, my grandbaby! Here she is in the sky! Later this summer, I will have some time with her in Oregon, helping out while her daddy is off on an adventure. My daughter and I will probably sleep in the family bed together, sometimes with Lola between us, a joy sandwich!!

I get to see my son in Oregon, too! All joy, all the time!

I've been waiting for the tidying impulse to strike me again, and it finally did. I recycled a bunch of old Christmas cards. Not the glitter ones, which I put in the garbage. I don't think glitter can be recycled. I felt a little like I was throwing away Christmas, but I got over it. It was joyful to re-see the cards, re-read some of them, and say bye bye. 

While tidying, I washed and then further aired out in the sun a bunch of overalls my son wore when he was a baby. 

Lola's growing so fast, she might outgrow them before she can wear them--seasonally--but there's a new baby boy cousin in the family, so double-stuff cookie joy sandwich!

And I'm reading a novel that makes me laugh out loud, Sandwich, by Catherine Newman. It's perfect for anyone who's familiar with menopause, children, a wonderful husband who might not always be emotionally available while you are raging due to hormones, and an annual weeklong beach vacation. Also, being of the "sandwich" generation, taking care of kids and parents... I knew when I read a book blurb that I would have to read this one, and tried to wait till my library got it, and ordered a non-fiction book of hers through interlibrary loan in the meantime, and then just gave up and bought it. I laughed out loud during Catastrophic Happiness, too!

So, while I have started tidying again, I have acquired another book. But it's something to keep for gems like this: "People who insist that you should be grateful instead of complaining? They maybe don't understand how much gratitude one might feel about the opportunity to complain." Ha! (as I wrote in my reading journal) Our family in a nutshell! And also for the grandpa's definition/compare/contrast of "schlemiel" and "shlimazel." I won't tell you what it is--buy the book!--but it's on page 104.

Spring Cleaning

I can feel that spring cleaning urge bubbling up inside me, and when it reaches full boil, I will clean, or, if the weather cooperates, get back out in the garden, but it's also possible I will just hunker down and read. Reading has been my comfort and my downtime for a long time, but is lately a bit like water, something I need to live. So it might be a Slattern Day for me, a Saturday of reading and writing poetry, chores only as they arise, and keeping an eye on my husband, who had the back of our Ford Escort fall on his head yesterday. It's a 1991 wagon, and we have to prop open the back loading door as the appropriate replacement parts...no longer exist? But yesterday was so windy, the box he was unloading was whipped against the prop, dislodging it. "That'll leave a mark," said the hubby. A dent.

The car pictured looks like our car, if it was newer, shinier, and lived in the mountains. And had all its parts.

For National Poetry Month, I am, as usual, writing a poem a day and providing prompts for such in an online workshop, where I commune with a bunch a lovely people, most of whom I have never met. For many years now, we have gathered in April. It's a joy. I am also celebrating by reading and reviewing poetry books by EIL poets over at Escape Into Life, most recently a selected works gathering by Keith Taylor, whose bird poems have delighted me in the past. This is a life's work! 

The title of this one comforts the slattern that I am, re: spring cleaning vs reading: All the Time You Want!

And, a delightful surprise, a cento I wrote recently for an art exhibit and artmaking workshop--a local gallery/library collaboration--also appeared in a column by Sarah Carson in Bold Cafe. She had asked for centos to use as a poetry prompt, and used mine! A lot of my poems are about my mom these days, and "Grief Cento" and its sources helped me process and depict aspects of my grief for her, and how that's somehow everywhere in the world around me...