I haven't had a religious epiphany from losing my son. When my grandmother said he was in the arms of Jesus, I said 'he's at peace', and that was it.
Weeks since then, I realized part of deconstructing me (see last blog about imperfection) was trying to remember again what it felt to really be joyous. What things really bring me joy, and which don't. I found joy in nothing for many months; not eating, not sleeping, not even Simones shenanigans.
But it all finally came down to the question: what do I want from this world in the short term? If you could live your last day, and you knew it, what would you do?
Well, what I realized is that I've come to a more naturalistic worldview. Not Wiccan (sp?) but just the cruelty and beauty of what life is. Every day should be a good day to die, and I put that quote on my profile only days before Myles died. I took it off, felt like an asshole, but I still believe it even though I can't accept the fact that he should have at least died in my arms if I was going to have to say goodbye forever.
So the other day, I layed in the sun, just plopped down on my front deck and soaked in the rays, and I was happy. And I've been thinking about planting a garden, I've been moving perennials, putting some rocks up, and I'm just learning, but its challenging and fascinating and the suns rays feel like Myles. I like to think his energy is apart of them.
So I guess what I find faith in is the cycle of life. People call people tree huggers, but have any of you hugged a tree? I have. It was terrific. And I'm going to plant a tree that I have for Myles, and I'm going to plant whatever I can for him in the next few weeks. Because he was here and just as quick he was gone, and he was just as much a part of the cycle of life that I am or you are. I told my daughter a loooong time ago that everything that lives must die. I remind her of it if she asks. But not in a dreary way, more like an adventure. I tell her if everyone lived forever, life wouldn't be so special. It would have neither beauty nor cruelty, and that in the grand scheme, we are pretty lucky to find ourselves here, in a finite world. And I think Myles was even fortunate, to live, even such a short life, with love, and laughter, and singing, and talk always revolving around him. He kicked my sister in the head, and punched or kicked at least every other person dear to me.
Maybe living and dying in the womb is so not so bad after all. No hunger, I like to think no pain, just a warm embrace and a slow awareness of the voices and sounds around you. And he was a part of our family, he heard not just our laughter, but our arguments, Simone's tantrums, and my stress. All the while he was warm and nurtured, and growing and learning, and he will never know the sadness we feel that he is gone. I'm glad for that. All he knew was contentment and wonder, and maybe that's not so bad?
He felt love, but never grief. Maybe it's selfish to wish him with me instead, maybe he had felt the best life had to offer, hopefully not the worst.
4 comments:
T,
I loved your post because I feel very strongly about the 'circle of life' mentality that you touch upon.
I had a similar epiphany of letting go and somewhat coming to terms when we lost Ronan. I walked into the light that shines in the late afternoon, and I felt that he was part of it. Suddenly everything made some sort of sense. It was amazing, beautiful, sad and every other emotion combined. But I remember it was the first time I truly felt peace.
I am still trying to figure out what I believe. Whether we are reincarnated spirits, one with the earth, or the existence of a higher power. All I know is that my son is around me, showing me things every day. Whether that makes me a hippie tree hugger, who knows! So be it. I will be a meat-eating tree hugger then.
Better days ahead, my friend. I wish it the most for all of us...
I think this is beautiful and such a comforting way to look at it. The selfish part of me still wants him back though, wants him sitting here with me, wants him to know life. But what I want doesn't matter anymore. He's gone. He died in me. He'll never know what we know...and maybe, that is a good thing.
I find comfort in the same thing-- that A was loved and cared for, that he never was poked and prodded. It's a pittance, but it makes my peace with not getting to see him alive, not even for a little bit. Most days it does.
I struggle with many of the things you speak of here...the thought cycle and reverberate relentlessly at times. I do try to take comfort in the unknowingness- try to make peace with the nothingness- if you've never read Elio Frattaroli, I highly recommend it, even for an anarchist (I call myself a minarchist) and atheist :-)
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