"As a well-spent day brings happy sleep, so a life well used brings happy death."
- Leonardo da Vinci
It's so odd to me that I couldn't fall asleep last night. I found out this morning from my mom that her mother, my wonderful, loving grandmother, my Nanny, passed away in her sleep last night. My initial reaction was one of just pure calm because I couldn't help but be amazed that my Papa passed away in his sleep just over a year ago. I honestly can't think of any better way to leave this world than they did other than if they had done so together on the same night. I would say just over a year apart isn't so bad. He was 88, and then she was 89.
Her birthday was almost a month ago tomorrow, and my mom happened to visit her for that week between her birthday and Mother's Day. I had sent her a bouquet of flowers on her birthday, but then Mother's Day snuck up on me, and my card was several days late. I felt awful. I made sure to write her a nice note because she is seriously the most wonderful, patient, loving woman. She used to be a nurse and was the mother of seven children, 16 grandchildren, and 13 great-grandchildren (with two more on the way). Everyone loved her.
It's funny the little things that strike you in hindsight. This past week, I received a thank-you note from her for the flowers I had sent, and Kyle had thrown it in the waste basket without realizing what it was. I saw it in there along with another piece of mail and pulled it out. I'm so glad I saw it. It's my last little piece of my grandmother. Something special from her to me. Gosh, she also gave me this wonderful set of vintage plates and cups and bowls the last time I saw her, and I just remembered that I never wrote her a formal thank-you note for that. I'm sure she knows how grateful I was, but I'm regretting that now. She had kept the whole set for something like 50 years without ever using it even once.
A few weeks ago, she told my aunt she saw a woman in white sitting on my Papa's side of the bed. She said she knew she wasn't dreaming because she had reached out to touch the woman. She had also seen a man in her bedroom shortly after my Papa passed away last year. Seriously, it is still so incredible to me that they both slipped away so peacefully into the night. No one saw it coming either time. I'm so happy for them. They were two of the hardest working people with the most integrity that I could ever imagine. They've created this huge family, and they only had to live without each other for a year.
I'm so glad my mom had that time with her mother last month. I think that will really help her get through this tough period knowing she had quality time with her toward the end. They were always very close, and I feel so lucky to be close like that with my mom. She learned everything she knew from my Nanny, and I told her that in her Mother's Day card. I'm so glad I did that because I really hesitated writing it and bringing up my Papa in it. But I don't think it helps to pretend people never existed. If anything, it must be more painful to have people dodge the topic around you when it's probably the majority of what you ever think about and wish so badly people would talk to you about.
In my post about my Papa, I mentioned how he built a birdhouse with me years ago, so birds always remind me of him. Today my mom said that when she learned about his passing, she looked out the kitchen window and saw a hummingbird. Then when she heard about my Nanny's passing this morning, she looked out her bedroom window and saw a mama bird feeding her baby bird. I know a lot of people attribute stuff like that to coincidences, but I tend not to.
I have so much more to say about my Nanny, and I want to give her all the credit and recognition she is due, so I'll be back soon enough.
Originally posted: 6/5/12
June 5, 2012
Post #16: Celebrating a Man's Life
"My grandfather once told me that there were two kinds of people: those who do the work and those who take the credit. He told me to try to be in the first group; there was much less competition."
-Indira Gandhi
My grandfather, my papa, passed away just over a week ago. My mom told my sister and me when we got together for lunch. He had gone in his sleep the night before, and it was the peaceful sort of passing he so deserved. I don't think it quite hit me right away since we have always lived 400 miles apart. I think I was just happy to know that he didn't suffer. At 88 years old, he'd had a long, fulfilling life.
Still, though, you never expect someone in your life to go away for good. It's funny how death is one of the only things we can expect for sure, yet it is always so surprising when it happens. In some strange way, he has been more alive to me in the last couple weeks than ever. Perhaps it is because he has been the main topic of conversation, and we've all been swapping stories about wonderful memories with him. On the other hand, I think it has something to do with the fact that I feel like we can know each other better now. I've always had the idea that people gain an unfathomable amount of knowledge when they cross over into what is unknown to us. After all, he was only one Papa to seven children, 16 grandchildren, and soon-to-be 12 great-grandchildren. It would have been pretty difficult for this hardworking, virtuous, man of few words to get to know his granddaughter from 400 miles away.
I have many memories of my papa, but my most vivid one is from when I was about seven years old. He was out in the backyard working on a project, and I was rummaging through an assortment of wood scraps he had in a trash can. He could have easily ignored my pesky curiosity, but he put aside what he was working on and embraced it. I can't recall if we even really spoke, but he gathered up some of the various pieces and made a birdhouse with me. Having always been a talkative young girl intimidated by this quiet grandfather of mine and confused by his sense of calm, I felt like we had truly connected for the first time. I guess we can never choose the way people will remember us or what we do that will stand out to them in hindsight, but I'm so thankful that this is my memory that sums him up in my mind. I'd like to think that he'd be pleased with this view I have of him. Over the last few years, I've discovered my love for birds, and I don't think I'll ever see another one without thinking of him.
Sharing memories like that one with my family and looking through all of the old photos set up at his beautiful funeral, it was so clear that he truly was one of the good ones. He served in the U.S. Navy during World War II, married a truly fantastic woman, and raised seven children with her. He worked the same job for 34 years. He continued working throughout his 28 years of retirement by helping his family and friends improve their homes. He was early to bed, early to rise. He always gave his best to anything he ever did. He was a product of the greatest generation. He was strong, quiet, humble. He loved vanilla ice cream. He really did bring out the beauty in simplicity. He was my grandfather, my papa.
Henry William Wright, sometimes better known as Hammerin' Hank, has been and always will be an inspiration to me. Not only was he a man of tradition and family, but he was also a man who was open to and accepting of things that some might find unconventional. I think Papa, like many of us, realized that life has more and more gray areas as we get older. That's why I'd like to think that we aren't just alive or dead but, rather, just are. I'd like to believe that we simply exist in the memories of those who know and love us and that the rest is just details. I hope he would be proud of my attempt at keeping it simple. I love you, Papa.
Originally posted: 3/21/11
-Indira Gandhi
My grandfather, my papa, passed away just over a week ago. My mom told my sister and me when we got together for lunch. He had gone in his sleep the night before, and it was the peaceful sort of passing he so deserved. I don't think it quite hit me right away since we have always lived 400 miles apart. I think I was just happy to know that he didn't suffer. At 88 years old, he'd had a long, fulfilling life.
Still, though, you never expect someone in your life to go away for good. It's funny how death is one of the only things we can expect for sure, yet it is always so surprising when it happens. In some strange way, he has been more alive to me in the last couple weeks than ever. Perhaps it is because he has been the main topic of conversation, and we've all been swapping stories about wonderful memories with him. On the other hand, I think it has something to do with the fact that I feel like we can know each other better now. I've always had the idea that people gain an unfathomable amount of knowledge when they cross over into what is unknown to us. After all, he was only one Papa to seven children, 16 grandchildren, and soon-to-be 12 great-grandchildren. It would have been pretty difficult for this hardworking, virtuous, man of few words to get to know his granddaughter from 400 miles away.
I have many memories of my papa, but my most vivid one is from when I was about seven years old. He was out in the backyard working on a project, and I was rummaging through an assortment of wood scraps he had in a trash can. He could have easily ignored my pesky curiosity, but he put aside what he was working on and embraced it. I can't recall if we even really spoke, but he gathered up some of the various pieces and made a birdhouse with me. Having always been a talkative young girl intimidated by this quiet grandfather of mine and confused by his sense of calm, I felt like we had truly connected for the first time. I guess we can never choose the way people will remember us or what we do that will stand out to them in hindsight, but I'm so thankful that this is my memory that sums him up in my mind. I'd like to think that he'd be pleased with this view I have of him. Over the last few years, I've discovered my love for birds, and I don't think I'll ever see another one without thinking of him.
Sharing memories like that one with my family and looking through all of the old photos set up at his beautiful funeral, it was so clear that he truly was one of the good ones. He served in the U.S. Navy during World War II, married a truly fantastic woman, and raised seven children with her. He worked the same job for 34 years. He continued working throughout his 28 years of retirement by helping his family and friends improve their homes. He was early to bed, early to rise. He always gave his best to anything he ever did. He was a product of the greatest generation. He was strong, quiet, humble. He loved vanilla ice cream. He really did bring out the beauty in simplicity. He was my grandfather, my papa.
Henry William Wright, sometimes better known as Hammerin' Hank, has been and always will be an inspiration to me. Not only was he a man of tradition and family, but he was also a man who was open to and accepting of things that some might find unconventional. I think Papa, like many of us, realized that life has more and more gray areas as we get older. That's why I'd like to think that we aren't just alive or dead but, rather, just are. I'd like to believe that we simply exist in the memories of those who know and love us and that the rest is just details. I hope he would be proud of my attempt at keeping it simple. I love you, Papa.
Originally posted: 3/21/11
Up All Night
"New York's terrible when somebody laughs on the street very late at night. You can hear it for miles. It makes you feel so lonesome and depressed. I kept wishing I could go home and shoot the bull for a while with old Phoebe." - The Catcher in the Rye
I can't sleep. It's like I caught some sort of second wind by being crazy enough to go to LA and back on a Monday night. I had fun with good company though, so it was worth it. I wish I could fall asleep because Heaven knows I'll be wishing I could fall asleep under my desk all day tomorrow.
What I wouldn't give to be four years old again and have naps scheduled into my day.
Gosh, this is just mumbo jumbo that I'm writing in hopes that it will bore me to sleep. Maybe it will bore you to sleep before it bores me.
Everything feels more dramatic after 2am. Ted Mosby's mom told him nothing good happens after 2am. I don't totally agree with that, but I would agree that sleep is one of the very best things that can happen after 2am. I'll give it a shot. What do you have for me, Pandora? Ah, some Regina Spektor. Thank you. Goodnight.
6/5/12
I can't sleep. It's like I caught some sort of second wind by being crazy enough to go to LA and back on a Monday night. I had fun with good company though, so it was worth it. I wish I could fall asleep because Heaven knows I'll be wishing I could fall asleep under my desk all day tomorrow.
What I wouldn't give to be four years old again and have naps scheduled into my day.
Gosh, this is just mumbo jumbo that I'm writing in hopes that it will bore me to sleep. Maybe it will bore you to sleep before it bores me.
Everything feels more dramatic after 2am. Ted Mosby's mom told him nothing good happens after 2am. I don't totally agree with that, but I would agree that sleep is one of the very best things that can happen after 2am. I'll give it a shot. What do you have for me, Pandora? Ah, some Regina Spektor. Thank you. Goodnight.
6/5/12
May 29, 2012
Home Away From Home
Note: I wrote this in June 2011, but blogspot is weird now and puts the new date on things that you take out of draft mode. I just decided I want to choose posts to have up one at a time for now. I get nervous having a bunch of information about myself out there all at once since my posts are pretty personal. Call me crazy.
"You know that point in your life when you realize the house you grew up in really isn’t your home anymore? All of a sudden, even though you have some place to put your shit, the idea of home is gone. Maybe it’s like this rite of passage, you know. You’ll never have that feeling again until you create a new idea of home for yourself for your kids or the family you started. It’s like a cycle or something. I don’t know, but I miss the idea. Maybe that’s all a family really is: a group of people that miss the same imaginary place."
"You know that point in your life when you realize the house you grew up in really isn’t your home anymore? All of a sudden, even though you have some place to put your shit, the idea of home is gone. Maybe it’s like this rite of passage, you know. You’ll never have that feeling again until you create a new idea of home for yourself for your kids or the family you started. It’s like a cycle or something. I don’t know, but I miss the idea. Maybe that’s all a family really is: a group of people that miss the same imaginary place."
- Andrew Largeman, Garden State
My chest is literally heavy with loneliness and the longing for connection to someone. I hate that I'm afraid to say that because it makes people think that something must be wrong with my marriage. No, I just don't think two people can solve each other's every problem and fill each other's every need. That's why we have brothers, sisters, parents, children, etc. We get different things we need from a variety of people and serve a different purpose in each of their lives as well.
Oh great, now this song just started, "Happiness hit her like a train on a track..." This is how I feel. Eerily hopeful but despairingly sad.
It's so strange to me the way a new person in your life can make you feel. I am suddenly pulled back into my 14-year-old self. Awkward, insecure, overly critical of every word escaping my mouth or my fingertips. I share too much; I ask too much; I am too much. I weigh a person's every word and action just as heavily as I do my own. I read into things that aren't there but that I hope so desperately are because I want this feeling to be mutual. More often than not, it is not.
Is there anything more sad and disappointing than realizing you thought you were on the same page with someone who turns out to be in a completely different book? Human nature is so odd. There are so many unwritten rules about proper interaction. I am also a victim of putting too much emphasis on the importance of following societal norms. I always worry too much that I'm not following them or feel empathetically embarrassed for anyone I see breaking these unknown restrictions on our developing relationships. I get pushed away by someone pushing too hard to get close to me. And then turn around and push someone else away from me.
I have an uncle who happens to be gay. A few years ago, I found a letter he wrote to my mom when he was 14. He told her about a female friend he had who was moving away. He said he realized he loved her and that they just held each other or something and stayed up together all night. For some reason, this really touched me. I realized how beautiful it is to love someone who isn't your family member or significant other. I almost wonder if it's the purest form of love. Here's this person to whom you are neither genetically related nor sexually attracted, and yet you care so much about them. That is such an active choice to love someone. What an honor to have a friend who loves you like that, and what a privilege to find someone you love like that.
I just want to connect. I want to learn something new. I want to fall in love with a new friend. No, I don't want to be single and dating, though that was fun while it lasted. I love my husband very much and feel so lucky to be with him. It's just that I find so much joy in getting to know new people, or getting to see people I already know in a different light. I always try to take away something from each new encounter with a fresh face, but, once in a blue moon, I see a face like that and it looks so familiar. I just want to find out why. I just want to find out why it is I love some people before knowing them well enough for such a strong feeling to make sense.
I would also like to know if I get that feeling because that other person has it, too, or if perhaps it's just all in my own head. Unfortunately, I think the latter may be the case, which honestly makes me feel more delusional and alone than I already did in the first place.
Good Lord, this post is depressing. But it's honest. And weird. Just like me, I guess.
Post #23: Regaining Passion
"Passion rebuilds the world for the youth. It makes all things alive and significant."
-Ralph Waldo Emerson
Gosh, I've been reading a whole bunch of stuff I wrote back in high school and college, and I can't believe how passionate I was. I still think I am, but then I read that stuff. It inspires me. Past me actually inspires present me. It's really all ridiculous considering the main thing I want to do in life is inspire others to action, yet I never know what action I need to take in order to do that. Then I read things I wrote years ago and feel inspired by my own words. That's either twisted or narcissistic or awesome, and I haven't figured out which yet.
So here it is:
I'm listening to that song. It's my new obsession. It's so damn inspirational. I can't explain it really. It's kind of comforting in a way. It just repeats, "You already know, yes, you already know how this will end." It's eerie. Then it plays this music that makes you see a montage of future you and all of your accomplishments. It shows you fighting for causes and pushing your kids on swings and grabbing your wife and laying a big, fat kiss square on her lips. It shows you squeezing her hand tightly as she gives birth to your first-born and your son rounding the bases at his high school baseball game and you reading the eulogy at your mother's funeral. It shows you tossing hamburgers on the grill at a family reunion barbecue and the time you won that huge courtcase and were bombarded with reporters on the steps of city hall and your wife turning to face you in the street on a rainy night as she's attempting to catch a cab after a fight and you grab her by the wrist just before she steps into one and hold her in your arms so that she knows how sorry you are for letting your career get the best of you. And then you see your daughter graduating from high school and looking over at you with a wink during the ceremony and your whole family running down the street after your dog because he got out for the fiftieth time and you proposed a group effort to recapture him and you patting your son on the shoulder to let him know that it's okay to not always be the winner. And then there are these clips of you crying uncontrollably in your car on some country road that you drove out to when you thought you had just about lost it to your mid-life crisis and then, for good measure, it skips to these wonderful bouts of laughter that your whole family took part in after some huge fight that you all realized was ridiculous right in the middle of it. Then it shows your daughter dancing in some recital when she was eight years old and still concerned with what her hair looked like in a bun and it flips to your wife helping your daughter get in her costume and then shows this extended look she gives you with all this love in it as if to say, "Damn, we're really doing alright. Who knew?" And then the music fades as the camera zooms in on your eyes. And then the image fades into the clouds. Because you already know how this will end.
So here it is:
How It Ends
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