The Cycle of Life

February 4, 2017

This morning I am wandering about the house aimless, yet with little tasks on my mind to do – picking up this or that, emptying small garbage cans, making coffee, watering plants, etc. I think I am in avoidance mode. Avoidance mode is that place where you know you should deal with something – a thought, an action, an activity – but you just can’t quite make yourself do whatever it is. I am declaring right here and now that avoidance mode is an alright place to be. Not always, but sometimes. 

I know what I am avoiding, and I guess now that all my little tasks have played out and I really need to get on with my day that I can let a little of it out. I am avoiding thinking of those hard decisions to be made in life. Move, or not. Work, or not. Marry, or not. So many things we have to make hard decisions about. I think the most important decision must be the one that takes us down the road to our own destiny. We are born. We die. What happens in between is living, and sometimes we have to make that decision to lead us down the path to our own death; or maybe it is our own destiny. I had to do that for someone I loved a long time ago. It was one of the most difficult decisions I have ever made. It was the right decision, I know without doubt, but it was not easy. My mother-in-law made me her health care surrogate, which means when her faculties shut down and hard decisions had to be made, she asked me to make them for her. It took me a long time to sign that paper, and even after I signed it, I wanted to take it back. But I know it was the right thing to do.
To me, our lives are unscripted, yet somehow with pre-written endings. We have free will to choose the paths we travel, but that path always takes us to where we are supposed to be at any moment, always toward the end of our lives. That is a hard truth sometimes, and it probably goes against what others believe, and that is okay. Maybe I am wrong. It does not matter in the end. We walk the path of our lives wondering if we are on the right path, but I think we always are. To me, that means that every breath we breathe, every step we take, every decision – everything leads us to where we wind up. 

So I think of the little moments of my life sometimes – those gone by. They cannot be changed, but each of those tiny moments has made me who I am, where I am today; it is always the right place to be, the here and now. This morning I had little moments of memory of my early teen and teenage years. Of waking in my old bedroom, patchwork printed curtains tied back at the windows, the antique bed and dressers; the beautiful smooth, mirrored vanity. Of the way the sunlight came in, soft and subtle through the sheers in the windows with their slightly wavy old glass. I think of polishing the banister, of cleaning mirrors downstairs, mixing up cookies on the kitchen counter; of the old Charles Chip can on top of the refrigerator. I think of late nights downstairs in the house – with everyone asleep upstairs, of watching out the front windows at the silent, sleeping village; watching nothing special but longing always for something different. Of the sound of the distant train on the tracks, or the low sound of a boat horn on the river as it signaled for the boathouse to raise the bridge so it could continue on its own journey. I think of the dusty smell of metal screens raised in the summer, of the cold, fresh spring air that would pour into the house as we aired it from the long winters. I think of the gurgle of the pool summer nights, and of the soothing sound of the old box fans in the windows the hot nights, pulling in cooler air from the outside. 

I think of these things, and then I know what I am really avoiding. Thinking of my Mom-Carole. How she’s been a part of my life for as long as I can remember. I think of her teaching me to float in Joan Armstrong’s pool many, many years ago – when I was very young; when my parents were still together, and her Spike was still alive and our world’s touched always until they collided in my pre-teen years. How my father and I moved in with her and the boys, after the turmoil and upheaval in all of our worlds brought us all crashing in together. I think of how happy they were for a long time, of how confused the boys and I were, but how much we all were a family, despite it all. And how hard it was. But I also think of how hard she tried. And I think of how she’s been a mother to me, and so often she was there when my own mother was not. I think of how she has supported me and loved me, even after she and my father parted. I think of the changes in her life, and how she became less independent over the years, and how losing my father, Danny, her parents – how all of that really destroyed her confidence and sense of security, and how hard life became for her, despite her often brave face. How bitterness took hold, and it made everyone sad, but no one was able to fill those voids left behind in her life.

I have tears in my eyes, running down my cheeks. I know that life; her destiny has led her to where she is now, and to the decisions she is making now each day; that hard choice to say no, I cannot do this anymore. I am done. That her life will end, and it will not be pretty or easy. I would not want to do it either. But I am in a different place in my life, and I continue to think of all she has done for me, been for me – good and bad, because life is never, ever perfect, and we are never perfect to those we love or who love us all of the time. I think of her, younger, robust, full of life, pride, purpose. I think of her in more recent years, and I know her existence and reason for living has become a shell of what it once was. 

I think of how much I will miss her, because when we are faced with such a reality of loss, I believe we realize even more how much someone’s presence in our lives really means to us. We don’t know what we have until it is gone; or we are faced with the reality of loss, I guess. 

Here’s the thing that is so odd, though. Life does go on. We do not think we can bear it; the weight of loss, and yet we do. The reality of losing my Mom-Carole saddens me, and I feel lost already, even with her still here. I know I will survive; I always do. I value life and love life, and I love the people in my life. But I have survived loss, and I will now. It makes me think of my own life, and all those little moments long forgotten that have transpired to bring me to this moment; to this now and I feel so grateful. To God, my angels, to those moments and all those people intertwined within my days over the years. And it makes me determined to live my life and appreciate those small moments, because each and every one is vital to who I am right here and right now. I love my Mom-Carole. I always will. She has been such an integral part of who I am, and I love her.

Sleepless in Seattle and Phil Collins

I catch a glimpse of the night sky; trees silhouetted against the darkness, clouds sliding in and out of sight; starlight winking through now and then. Clothes tumbling in the dryer, the warm sweet smell of their freshness filling the air. In the living room the movie Sleepless in Seattle is on – Meg Ryan is sitting on the bench outside her Baltimore apartment building, Tom Hanks is sitting on the bench of the porch of his houseboat in Seattle; each longing across the miles, in the quiet of the night for something yet unknown; yet unnamed or recognized. I love the timelessness, the simplicity of this movie. 1993 – Tom Hanks doesn’t think he can allow a woman to pay for her own dinner; times have changed so much since he last dated in 1978. Before cell phones, before reality television; before bad behavior became the norm and celebrity was still relatively classy. It was based on the movie An Affair to Remember with Carey Grant and Deborah Kerr – and that movie was based on 1930s Love Affair, another old movie with the same theme and main character; totally classy, totally romantic; ultimate in chick flicks. Like Meg Ryan and Rosie O’Donnell said - Men just don’t get it.

When I was in college I remember the first time I heard the song In the Air Tonight by Phil Collins. My memory is kind of like a classic movie scene – maybe over the years I have built it into more than it was, but the clarity of the memory is so crisp, and it never falters and it never changes, through all the years past, so I really think I remember it well. The song came on with its haunting drum and guitar intro, and I remember thinking wow, what a great beat; how dramatic; it instantly became my favorite song. I was standing in this dorm room on the third floor of Stuart Hall, Morrisville College, Morrisville New York. My friends and I were at a room party held by someone – I cannot recall now who it was; someone we had partied with in the past; there was always a party to attend somewhere. I remember standing in front of the window looking out at the darkness. This window faced southwest, and back then the “new” dorms were at the back of the campus, with not much beyond but cornfields. There were lights on, all around Helyar Pond and the paths that led to West and Helyar dorms were lit up, but I remember the darkness, and I remember seeing my own reflection as I looked out the window listening to that song for the first time – January 1981. It was before I met Michael; before he and I were together, and then not, and it was before I left New York for the summer and met Steve. I remember listening to that song thinking somewhere out there someone was waiting for me – someone who would be the one to change my life; I could feel it coming toward me in the night. It was one of the most profound moments of my life, and it has stayed with me all these years later. Through a long, lovely marriage, through the terrible heartbreak and loss of that marriage, through searching for and finding myself again. Often when I look out the window at the night, flashes of those few moments so long ago come back into my mind. I’ve always felt that the night is so full of possibilities. When I see that scene from Sleepless in Seattle; where Meg and Tom are longing  for something unnamed, I think of myself looking out that third floor window longing for something of my own in the night. I have not had that feeling since then, but I know that the possibilities of the night are truly real.