Memoriam

My cousin is dying in St. Paul. I was lucky enough to see her last week and spend some beautiful and precious hours with her as she began her in-home hospice. She will most likely not live for more than a few more days now, and my heart is breaking as are many who love her. When I returned to NYC, for some reason I decided to send in a piece I had written a number of years ago about being with my estranged father when he died in 2010. The journal editor got back to me the next day and said she wanted to publish it. These two people and experiences could not be farther apart but since this whole decade has been about close relatives dying, it resonates nonetheless...

So I here is the link to Memoriam in Burning House Press.

That is all for now.

"Ashes are stardust"

That is what D tells his 6 year old lovely son G who is running around Prospect Park in his Harry Potter Wizard "Gryffindor" robe, lovingly spreading my stepfather David's ashes around various trees with a wooden spoon he was dipping into the cookie jar with a whale painted on it. I gave G first dibs because he was so enthused. G is sad David died, but somehow he gets it, too. He creates a little altar of twigs and leaves and acorn caps around one little mound of ashes he placed at the base of a tree he just knew had to have some of David's ashes.

The best thing that could have happened today was D bringing G to join us for scattering David's ashes. G asked me if he could do certain things, like place a stick he found that had been painted purple and green over ashes I had placed in the hollow at the base of another tree, one that David's very good friend had chosen to scatter some ashes. "Purple and green are the best colors! They will protect him from evil spirits!"

David had requested in his will that half his ashes be scattered here in the Prospect Park Meadow. I did not know where to place them, and so his close friend (and executor) and I asked some good friends who were with us and had spent more time with him in the park. Once we picked an area, everyone got a chance to decide where to place some ashes, which was G's brainstorm "because there's a lot!" How do kids know everything?

When we all had scattered the ashes, I stood between all the various trees where ashes had landed then turned away from everyone and cried.

David, who had been my father most of all, and yet I had not known it until he died, and how could I not have known it since he came into my life at the time I was G's age, picking up the pieces of some pretty dire predecessors, even though he was picking up his own pieces from Vietnam, and his mother's sudden death and suddenly having to care for his teenage siblings (48 years ago yesterday - on Veteran's Day - which brought him home from Vietnam early - and probably saved his life - at least that is what his sister surmises, and that may be true - not that David would have taken that trade if offered. He went to Vietnam not as a true believer but because he thought it was unfair someone poorer than him who didn't have a college education should have to go in his place. Which may be why he left money in his will for one of his good friends to go back to college, which he is now doing, and appears as a man transformed - someone finding his potential. Another life David saved.)

I am so sad because I let arguments David and I had had get in the way of our closeness when I was back in NYC. Maybe he did, too, but he's dead now, and I'm left alone, knowing I definitely did that. I can never get that time back. No do overs when someone has died.

But D kept saying to G "It's stardust - those are atoms some might have been here since the beginning of time" and he's right of course and his son's joyful sadness was a testament to this belief. And everyone's love. His executor who was in charge of this ceremony said "Julia gets the rest of the ashes, she's his daughter" and that made me cry some more, and I'm crying now of course...

I was at a crystal reiki healing thing yesterday - yes if you had told me even 10 years ago I would go to such a thing I would have been...dismissive. But I did, and I found a crystal there and it had some kind of power and the reiki/crystal healer was saying how crystals are solidified light and they have all the information in them about the universe and the multiverse and I believed her, for whatever reason, and so I planted one of those crystals at the base of a tree that John had done some kind of Taoist thing with that I don't understand, and I don't have to understand, and so that's what everyone was doing, these little rituals, our rituals.

crystal planted in hollow of this tree

Which is how David's ashes - the second half - were spread.

The rest - as I wrote about in September - are in the Atlantic Ocean off the coast of Maine. Another sacred place.

I may not have known how much love we actually shared and how he was my father - because who the hell else is the person in your life from age 6-53 even if he was gay and our lives were unconventional and someone else came after, another stepfather, Tom, who I also loved very much? He was there when I found writing and theater and all the things, but also the horrible things, too, and so much, and as he did for so many others, he saved me from one of them, and so now when there are terrorist attacks or other scary things, I feel really vulnerable, because he's not there. But I do feel what he was for me now, and in some ways still is, but not here physically, and that does make all the difference.

Watching Last Flag Flying, about three Vietnam Vets reunited for the death of one of their sons in Iraq, I was desperately sad not to share that with him - the heartbreak and beauty and humor of that film. I miss laughing with him most of all, and his pride in me, which when he displayed it made me feel like a star.

So I planted the crystal and watched D's son play wizard and knew David would have loved that, does love that, and the crystal is now at a base of a tree where John dug a little hole where in 10-20 years the tree will grow over it, because we all loved David so much, and as someone said, that tree (a giant oak), was like him, "Tall, large...and sexy."

We all laughed. David would have loved that, too.

This is my NYC life - the one I shared with David - me and a bunch of fabulous gay men - all smart, wildly talented and diverse in every way, and ALL in love with David. Sometimes a small child - like G - who reminded me so much of me at that age in the way he built little shrines out of twigs and such over David's ashes and being the center of adult attention, and that was it, wasn't it, isn't it, all that love and who cares if it looks like something "normal" or now - and happily NOW this is the new normal - all reactionary idiocy aside - in real life, this is the new normal.

And isn't it wonderful.

If I could, of course, I would call David and tell him that right now, and we'd laugh until we cried.

Rumi on grieving

I may have posted this before, but I'm posting it again, because this poem by Rumi that I have tacked up above my computer is saving me again.  Probably because of reading it this morning and letting it sink in, each line, I had a moment today, walking up the stairs from the subway to go to a writer's meeting, of grace - the kind of moment when you feel you are being carried.

I am praying for acceptance every day now. Of it all.


Here is Rumi (Coleman Barks translation):

This being human is a guest

house.  Every morning

a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness,

some momentary awareness comes

as an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and attend them all!

Even if they're a crowd of sorrows,

who violently sweep your house

empty of its furniture, still,

treat each guest honorably.

He may be clearing you out

for some new delight.

The dark thought, the shame, the malice,

meet them at the door laughing,

and invite them in.

Be grateful for whoever comes,

because each has been sent

as a guide from beyond.

Welcome difficulty.

Learn the alchemy True Human

Beings know:

the moment you accept what troubles

you've been given, the door opens.

Welcome difficulty as a familiar

comrade.  Joke with torment

brought by the Friend.

Sorrows are the rags of old clothes

and jackets that serve to cover,

and then are taken off.

That undressing,

and the beautiful

naked body

                     underneath,

                                    is the sweetness

                                                that comes

                                                            after grief.

* * *

p.s. In case you want to hear my words and live in or near NYC, you can go to St. Mark's Poetry Marathon on New Year's Day. I'm reading in the 5-6pm slot - would normally send out newsletter about that but can't bring myself to do that right now, so announcing it here. It's a lovely time. Come along if you can.

Here comes the rain again...

Yeah I know it's a line from the Eurythmics, which dates me as ancient ...

I came home, put on some music, Vivaldi - that innocuous - lay down on the rug and started crying.  I hate music right now.  Whenever I put it on, I cry, because it puts me in touch with the dreaded emotions. The second anniversary of my father's death is coming up on Saturday...quickly followed by the day B and I got together for the first time and of course now he's gone.  So, it just sucks.

At first I thought the emotional weight was more about the separation, but that's not true at all - it's more about my father.  Or both, or like who cares...it sucks.

I don't know what to do on Saturday.  I asked a friend to spend the day with me, we'll see if that's possible.  I hate asking things like that of people, but I did it - by email.  OK, not the best way but the best I could do.  I'm not on my way up to Kripalu like I'd hoped, because right now I fear it's too expensive plus I am sick to death of traveling.

Weirdly enough last night while I stared at the idiot Iowa Caucus, a whole corner of my neighborhood burned down, literally 2 blocks away - which included my local pet food store, laundromat, bank, hardware store and yoga studio.  All of it - gone in a huge blaze.  It's sad to see so many small business (aside from the bank) wiped out.  Plus on a purely selfish level disorienting - where should I bring my laundry now, buy my cat food, do yoga and find a place to get money and deposit it...of course it being NYC these questions can be answered relatively easily and will only involve walking a few more blocks here or there, but still it's just so odd.

Going to my writer's meeting tonight, the train stopped because there was 'a person on the tracks' - I don't know if that's the equivalent of the London tube 'person under a train' announcement (which was announced with disturbing regularity I should add), but right after seeing the burnt out skeleton of a corner of a city block, it wasn't the thing you want to hear.

On the bright side, I'm reading Mary Karr's Lit, which just gets better by the page.  I am both energized, inspired and somewhat envious reading it.  Envious of her ability to talk about her chaotic life so beautifully and sharply, thanks to her poet's ear, lack of self-pity and giant soulful  heart and also relevant to the dead father thing - the fact she had a meaningful relationship with her biological father - instead of having to sort through a variety pack with the original variety missing, except as a vapour trail.  Her father was a stone alcoholic so I'm not talking about hearts and flowers, but it was a real relationship and with my father that never happened.  I chased after him as a child without much luck.  He made some attempts to connect with me - sort of - when I was an adult, which I batted away, angry at that point.  Then just when we were trying to connect, he had a stroke and couldn't talk, then when he could he was aphasic and I later found was getting high throughout the whole supposed recovery process, so like that couldn't help matters.  Pot heads.  I am sorry if you are reading this and like pot, I fucking hate what it does to people over the long term.  It makes people recede, gradually, so slowly it's like trying to watch the earth turn, but just as inexorably, it does turn and the person is gone, gone, gone....Like my father, like so many people.

I know it's fashionable these days to say marijuana is so great and it's a medical thing and blah blah blah but I say bullshit.  I've seen it slowly destroy so many people, including, obviously, my father.  Alcohol is just as bad, if not arguably worse and certainly messier, but I don't hold with the idea it's healthier or innocuous.  Maybe there are people who can smoke pot the way those of you who can have a social drink do that and if so, hooray for you.  But I've seen too much damage people...believe me, I know what I'm talking about here.

And of course I'm angry about that because the sadness and the loss is just unbearable.  Un-fucking-bearable.  To have not had a father and then watch him die is just horrendous.  I'm not the first and won't be the last and I'm lucky I suppose to have had any relationship with him at all, but there are other things, too, that are even harder to talk about and perhaps won't be spoken of on this blog.  But it's not pretty, I'll leave it there and let you fill in your own blanks.

I've forgiven him, that was the gift I was given by showing up at the hospital.  I wrote about that last year and the story of that has been published in a collection, which when I receive a copy of it, will tell you where you can get it if you're interested.  But after forgiving him, all the suppressed emotions came pouring out, having been frozen as resentment in some nuclear bunker of dissociative lock-down...so when the forgiveness came, next were the tears and the rage and the nausea and the fears of certain kinds of weird things I can't bring myself to talk about yet publicly and damn it was hard...and led probably to the end of my marriage as all this came tumbling out and I went from Julia-light to Julia-full on...not exactly what B had signed up for.  That makes me very sad, too.  To think that 'all of me' is a problem or too much for someone, etc.  Another motivator that got me back to NYC.  The place where no one can be too much of anything.  Thank Christ and All of Her/His Disciples for that.

So, for better or for fucking worse, I am fully accounted for now.  And to some people that's a good thing and to some people it's a scary thing and you know what, I just don't have the time for people who are scared by me anymore.  It's just so boring and kind of sad.  I mean I'm not scary.  I may be strong sometimes, crumple sometimes, be needy sometimes, be self-sufficient other times, have a sense of humor and sometimes deploy sarcasm (shock!) and even - gasp - use big words, but like who cares?  If I was male, none of this would even be the teeny tiniest issue.  I don't know why it's taken me so many years on this planet to truly hip to the level of molecular sexism on the planet, but damn it's dull and frustrating and just kind of Exhausting to deal with - ya know?  I'm not blaming all men for this and I know women, too, who are misogynist, but damn when can we finally shitcan this bullshit?  It is so last millennium...and the one before that...and the one before....

So to end on a positive note about my father in regards to this - the little time we did spend together when I was young, he taught me chess, gave me model battleships and chemistry sets, took me to art and science museums and never, ever told me I couldn't do something because I was a girl.  The only sexism I ever encountered within my family was reverse sexism when my grandmother Jani got angry at me for dropping trigonometry because she thought I should be a physicist, since there weren't enough female physicists.

Arguably, I suppose, no one gave me 'girl' training.  And maybe that was a good thing.  Though I suppose some would argue it wouldn't have hurt to 'embrace my femininity' or whatever...not sure that would have helped much.  But looking back at clothes I wore as a young adult, especially when with my first husband, I kind of wish I hadn't dressed with the moral equivalent of sack cloth.  There are reasons for that, but it's sad to see - no celebration or awareness of my body at all...It's been such a painful journey to embrace my physical self - with steps forward and back and all around the track...

So much loss, so little joy.  I have to believe that is changing now.  I really hope so.  After the rain, generally sun...and fresher air.  No guarantee the rain doesn't return of course, but nor do I have to drown in it.  But accept it, I must.  However, it's nice to be back in a physical climate where the rain does not come all the time...

Grateful for the heat in my apartment now as it's bitterly cold outside, but so toasty inside between that and the lovely coat I bought on super-sale in Maine, I'm good.  Grateful, too, for enough money for food, clothing, rent and the love from good friends and family.  Grateful, too, to be home, where I can't be too much of anything, even if sometimes I miss the real live social safety net of UK, which believe me I do...still, for now, I'm supposed to be here.  God/dess help me.  (And no, I don't mean Rick Santorum)