tea with emmanuel
The cynic in me wished it had come wrapped in discreet brown paper, like old-school porn or a build-your-own-atomic-rocket kit.
It had never occurred to me that answers or comfort or enlightenment might be found inside a book. The futility of making sense of our loss of Liam made me indifferent to philosophy, immune to it, even hostile that any self-proclaimed new age guru would presume to try and answer unanswerable questions.
So I've fumbled through the last year since he died, relying entirely on the exfoliating properties of writing. An attempt at counselling went nowhere, and I figured it was time to simply let time pass.
Then I came across Julie, whose beautiful, two-year-old son Ward died in the summer of 2005.
Try Don't Kiss Them Good-bye by Allison DuBois, she wrote, and anything by Elisabeth Kubler Ross. I liked The Afterlife Connection by Dr. Jane Greer, too. But if you only read one, read Emmanuel's Book.
Errmmm, I thought to myself. A book? With, what? Airbrushed unicorns and sunbursts on the front cover and a reverently, constantly capitalized letter H as in His plan and His glory and His eternal salvation?
I may be a cynic, but I like Julie. I like how she talks of her little Ward, and of her journey as a healing mama. Her enthusiasm for the genre had me curious in a what-harm-can-it-do sort of way.
I tried counselling for the sake of due diligence. I'm sure it's all pap and saccharine, death for dummies. But maybe there's something there. Due diligence.
And so it was during a rare window of spiritual consumerism that I clicked 'Add to Shopping Cart' and a few weeks later Emmanuel arrived alongside Madhur Jaffrey's World Vegetarian. Forgetting I'd ordered a book with the subtitle A Manual for Living Comfortably in the Cosmos I opened the box in front of Justin and shrank in embarrassment, hustled to the bedroom to stash it in my underwear drawer.
I sneak it out when no one's looking, bring a pot of tea to the bedside table and curl up under the duvet at 2 PM on a wintery Tuesday, just because I can, Evan at playschool and Ben propped with pillows on the bed where he fell, milk-drunk.
And I see this:
Dying is akin to having been in a rather stuffy room
where too many people are talking and smoking
and suddenly you see a door that allows you to exit
into fresh air and sunlight.
Truly it is much like that.
Matter becomes less dense.
Consciousness becomes less restricted.
Colours become more vibrant.
Sounds become more pleasant.
All the senses, finally released
from the cloak of the physical body
take flight with song.
The heckler in me scoffs
Oh, please.
Finally released? He never even made it outside.
'Finally' doesn't apply to someone who had so little chance to live.
I want him here with me in this rather stuffy room, dammit.
Then something quieter whispers
Oh, please.
Please let it have been like that.
+++++
Over the past year people of all persuasions have sent spiritual kibble my way. Quotes like these
The sea rises, the light fails, lovers cling to each other, and children cling to us. The moment we cease to hold each other, the moment we break faith with one another, the sea engulfs us and the light goes out.
james baldwin
I will not die an unlived life.
I will not live in fear of falling or catching fire.
I choose to inhabit my days, to allow my living to open me, to make me less afraid, more accessible, to loosen my heart until it becomes a wing, a torch, a promise.I choose to risk my significance, to live so that which came to me as seed goes on to the next as blossom, and so that which came to me as blossom goes on as fruit.
dawna markova
...and suggestions of books, many books, most of which have been duly noted but unexplored. I'm not sure why. What's your kibble? What words or philosophies softened your heart a little, after the loss of your baby?
kate
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My kibble are my friends in the computer. No matter how profound, or articulate, or mundane, or short. I've found so much here that's given me strength and peace and reassurance.
Otherwise I haven't found one. I've picked up my Buddhism books, but keep throwing them across the room in frustration. (how zen!) I loved Amy Bloom's Away, fiction, but with lots of thought-provoking nuggets. Otherwise I stick to sports and the crossword and let the mind go where it needs.
I'm always amazed when a friend can correctly gauge what it is we might like to read; a friend gave me the book I mentioned in yesterday's post, and another friend of the Mr's gave us elizabeth edwards' book which we both appreciated as well. I wonder if it's the act of giving that sometimes makes the kibble a bit more palatable.
The book that has meant the most to me is "Making Loss Matter: Creating meaning in difficult times" by Rabbi David Wolpe. He writes beautifully and never once tries to give an explanation for loss. He never once minimizes the pain of loss in the context of some cosmic plan. Instead, he starts from the place of, we will lose in this life, it will hurt, what will we do then?
He also doesn't shirk from the difficulties in holding onto faith in the face of loss. This is one of my favorite quotes:
"Nothing is an adequate substitute for presence. And death steals presence. For that alone, it is difficult for us to forgive the design of this world."
I actually turn to books and the words of others for comfort quite a lot. For me, it has been helpful. But I understand why it wouldn't be for everyone.
I have a bunch of poems/quotes that I collected on a page on my blog. And now I have my notepad ready to scribble down more books.
And I hope you don't sneer when I say I am not a cynic. It is not in me. My husband wishes I can be more cynical, actually.
I went back to exploring Buddhism and I have written about Thich Nhat Hanh. of course there are times when I go "Yeah, right!" in a scarcastic tone but deep down I know a lot of the times it is my ego that stands between me and the Truth, not the death of my son. I did enjoy the works of Kubler-Ross, and Rumi and all the Taoist & Buddhist stuff.
You did not ask but what peeves me is when people say things like "Think positive." or "All is good." Bah!!
I know I have not lost a child, but I am still compelled to come here and that you let me makes me grateful. I have, though, lost several people in my life, one a year from ages 12-20, and this poem resonates with me the most although most particularly about my dad. It isn't strictly a poem about loss per se, but I find it so, so true for me. I don't know if it helps anyone here, but I thought I would pass it along just the same.
Separation by W. S. Merwin
Your absence has gone through me
Like thread through a needle.
Everything I do is stitched with its color.
'oh please. please let it have been like that.'
um, i'm not sure if "spiritual kibble" seems like the same compliment when applied to your own writing, Kate, but the bit above for me is a like a prayer...the only prayer i can quite summon from inside my irreverant soul.
and Zen...i've never read that quote before, and i love it. thank you.
Janis, I love it when you say "bah!"... I can hear your voice when you write that. :)
I read dozens of non-fiction books after I lost my daughter, some were ok, but the words that stuck with me long after came from a work of fiction called "Good Grief" by Lolly Winston. It isn't about the loss of a child, but rather the loss of a husband far too young, yet it captures grief in it's universal enormity perfectly. I appreciated the perspective and the way it reflected back at me.
The book sounds very interesting, Kate. All of what you write here, I can imagine feeling. You describe this place so well. All I know is that when I am down, words do bring me strength; perhaps that's the writer in us that makes this so. What you write is often inspiration for my days. Keep on keepin' on, good buddy...
There are very few things like that that comfort me. My problem is that the way that I think and process things creates a tendency to hold on tightly to negative emotion and pain.
In my mind, losing Matthew SHOULD hurt every single day of my life and I should have pain forever and ever, amen.
I haven't come across any kibble that addresses being ok with letting go of that.
I haven't lost a child, but when my friend committed suicide a few years ago, this Leonard Cohen poem was stuck in my head for a long time:
For Anne
With Annie gone,
Whose eyes to compare
With the morning sun?
Not that I did compare,
But I do compare
Now that she's gone.