The Other Side

Dan's Grandpa Dave died last week. He was two months shy of his 99th birthday. Dan and his sister Sarah will travel to Yakima, WA along with their mom Mary Anne to bury her dad on July 31st.

He had been fading from this life for several years, and though we thought he would let go soon after his wife of 72 years died, his body held on for three years longer. The last couple of times we visited Grandpa, he could still lift Felix's 35-plus pounds from his chair to sit him on his knee. They would play ball together, with Grandpa still expertly throwing and catching. But his mind was somewhere else. One of my last memories of him is from summer a year ago, when Mary Anne brought him to the house for lunch. After we ate, Grandpa sat looking out the big picture window while the rest of us chatted in the living room. I looked at his profile and at first felt sorry that he could not participate in the conversation with us. I wondered what was going through his mind. Then I thought to myself that his state of meditation or quiet, removed from the activity and bustle of our typical existence, is considered ideal by many of the spiritually inclined. I felt that his situation seemed neither good nor bad, but also made me melancholy. I felt that it epitomized that what is, IS. We might not like it, but it will continue to be, so the key is to not struggle or worry about it--not that that is an easy thing to do.

The day Grandpa died, the skies were moody. A storm roared in at 3pm, flooding the streets with sheets of rain. A few hours later, black clouds massed again and turned the afternoon dark, then unleashed a biblical rage of wind, sheets of rain and hailstones that shredded leaves, sheared off branches, flowers, and fruit, and broke windows in some parts of town. Our power was out for over 12 hours.

Later, I lay on the sofa next to a window waiting for lightning flashes. The blank gray sky seems as if it will fade to black imperceptibly, but then the lightning shatters it with a blinding white fury that disappears as soon as it arrives, so quickly it's as if I only imagined its coming and going.

I have some photos of myself on a bulletin board that were taken at various stages in my life: a Christmas in 2003 with my dear sister Mary and dear friend Ann, a New Year's Day in 1996 at a Shinto shrine with my Japanese aunts, a school photo from preschool, my cheeks still pudgy with baby fat. In the middle of the bulletin board is a photo of Elise. When catching a glimpse of these photos, I realized that Elise would never accompany us as a family member experiencing the events and milestones of our lives on this planet. And I thought that the line between life and death is so thin, yet somehow she is unreachable. Grandpa Dave was unreachable for the last few years of his life. Part of him was here with us, but another was somewhere else--maybe in the realm of the dead.

Grandpa's soul is finally freed from his body and the cycle can begin again. When Felix was born, my aunt Mitsuko died. When Elise's cousin Reeve was born, Elise was conceived. The day after Dan's cousin gave birth to her son, Elise died. I want to believe our next baby will come, and soon. I want to believe she has taken the torch passed along by Grandpa, and is making her way to us now.

Walking home from the park with Felix yesterday, which was full of two-children families and babies and preschoolers, I realized that the heaviness inside me was an ache of longing for Elise. And I realized also that it would always, always be with me. That doesn't mean I can't also ache for another baby: the two exist in different planes of myself. And it doesn't mean thoughts of Elise only bring me pain. There are at least two sides to everything, even when, as with death, the other side remains a mystery to us here.

Blossoming

Elise's rose bush is flowering. It's not the "official" rose we planted at her memorial, but even as a replacement for the one that didn't make it, it still represents hope for me.

We had planted two rose bushes at the memorial: one that we bought, and another my friends (then colleagues) at the Modern Languages Department gave us. November 10th was rather late in the year to plant, even though the weather was relatively warm for mid-autumn. The soil where we planted it is not the greatest either, since it was formerly gravel driveway and thus full of rocks and clay. And to top it off, we don't really grow roses and don't know much about their care. So both the rose bushes didn't make it the following spring.

But I had saved the receipt from the Department's gift, and got another rose from the nursery that had guaranteed the original for up to a year or they would replace it. When I returned from the nursery and planted the replacement, Dan said he was glad I could bring myself to do it, because he was feeling too demoralized.

I completely empathized with him. At the same time, I somehow felt driven to grow roses for Elise, even if they weren't the ones we planted at her memorial. I wouldn't be defeated by death, dammit: I had to prevail, no matter how small the gesture of my determination.

The soil is not the best, as I said, but the rose blooms have good company: the aspen we planted five years ago seems to grow before our eyes, probably 3 feet or more since it started out in our garden. The lilac that last year seemed plagued by mysterious black spots on its leaves is in full, fragrant flower. Along with its twin on the west side of the house, it never flowered much in all the years we've lived here, but this season we can scent its loveliness every time we open our front door.

So we live in the mystery, not knowing much except for one certainty: that flowers follow snow, which follows flowers, and so on.

Messes

What is it about weekends that I can really relax into whatever it is I'm doing and not worry about time or To-Dos? After all, I'm not at a paying job, not having to clock in anywhere or fill any quotas during the week. Maybe it's some Protestant-work-ethic, go-out-and-make-something-of-yourself American socialization.

Whatever the reason, the best part is that I can enjoy myself with Felix and Dan on weekends. Especially one like today, clear and sunny at long last. Today's sunshine has an effect like childbirth: the agony of cold, rainy weeks vanishes at the sight of the first warm, clear day.

This past week I felt irritable and impatient with Felix, even after I had time to myself while he'd spent hours at his grandparents' or at preschool during the day. He has fits of whining for candy, where I try to sympathize while telling him "not today," but after listening to his broken-record "lollipop...lollipop" or "gumdrops...gumdrops" a few hundred times, it's like the opposite of hearing a soothing chant: I finally yell, "STOP! I DON'T WANT TO HEAR YOUR WHINING!" I try to balance my tone of voice between This Is Your Last Chance authority and I Am Not Mad At You. Whenever I get abrupt with him, he bursts into tears, which I think is partly manipulation and partly that his feelings really do get hurt, which induces instant guilt in me.

But today is Saturday. Because it's Saturday, I happily indulged his wish to make banana bread, for probably the third time this month, even though it's a mess of an undertaking. In earlier bake-offs, he liked to whisk the flour mixture, crack the eggs, turn the mixer on and off. Today he reached Jamie-Oliver-like accomplishments: he held the measuring spoons while I poured salt and baking soda into them; and he cracked the eggshells AND dropped the eggs into the bowl. He shouted with glee at his egg-cracking feat, especially when I exclaimed that he hadn't let any shell fragments get into the bowl.

Of course there are the gooey bowls and spoons and mixing blade to wash. There are the counters to clean, especially where Felix insisted on using "the big spoon"--the tablespoon--to scoop baking powder. I got a bowl out for him to scoop and dump all the baking powder he wanted instead of wrecking the banana bread with an overdose of baking powder. Of course he got a lot of baking powder on the counter, and left an extra bowl for me to wash.

But the sun is out. The clouds have finally buzzed off. That means today is for making a banana bread mess, especially the batter on the face from licking the mixing blade. Today is for getting covered with sand while making "cakes" in the sandbox. Today is for muddy hands and knees from digging for worms. I couldn't ask for a better day.

Rain and Sun

Some lovely things I've heard lately:

From Dan this morning, putting his arm around me as I handed Felix his milk: "I like our family."
From Felix yesterday, cupping my cheeks as I carried him to the car: "You are my love. You are my beautiful girl."

It's now warm enough out for Felix to play in his sandbox in the rain, which is what he did yesterday before dinner. He found it extra fun to make sand "cakes" while wearing his green frog raincoat (thanks Ann!) and yellow rainboots (thanks Swift!). It's showery this time of year, but we had a beautifully sunny weekend, and the rain is behaving more like summer mountain storms: dramatic buildup of dark clouds, lightning and hail, then sun. Much better than relentlessly cloudy skies day after day.

Thoughts of Elise have sunk deeper into me now, not so much on the surface of raw nerves as coloring my gaze, suffusing my voice, guiding my touch. I don't think I need to look for the evening star to feel her and miss her. She is everywhere. I see her long toes when Dan wears his flip-flops. I miss her when Felix longs for a playmate in his boredom, still bouncing around after we've exhausted ourselves rough-housing with him. I sense her in the finally-leafed-out aspen in the front yard, the spectacular flowering crab tree in the back, the peony that doubled in height in a week, the tulips brilliant, now waning and dropping their petals.

She continues to blossom and grow with us.

Peace, Joy, and Pink Princesses

I think I can say Mother's Day was tranquil for me this year, even though Felix and I are on our own: Dan is out of town until day after tomorrow for a six-day work trip. It was tranquil even though Sarah invited us over for a brunch that was also a belated party for Anna's 4th birthday. She warned me in advance that it was a "princess" party and there would be two other couples with two daughters each, for a total of six little girls plus Felix. It was sweet and thoughtful of her to let me know. Actually, it doesn't hurt anymore to see little daughters these days: I used to take it as a personal affront to have families with a pregnancy, or a new baby, or an older boy and younger girl, or daughters, in my space or within my range of vision. Now they don't seem to exist solely as a taunt from the universe; it just feels like they are living their lives, and I am living mine. I enjoy them when they are at the same gatherings as I, and what better way to celebrate the idea of Mother's Day than a party full of princesses? Even Felix wore his pink ballet dress with matching patent-leather flip flops.


Today was tranquil because while I weeded the front yard, Felix plucked fistfuls of grass from the lawn and watched the wind blow it out of his hand.

My friend Linda drove up while we were in the yard to give me a "Tutti Frutti" geranium with gorgeous fuchsia blooms and serrated leaves. Linda's son died in December of 2004. "I think the hardest thing mothers have to do is to let our children go," she wrote in her card. So lovely, and ironic: as a single parent this week, Felix has been a joy for me, but also somewhat overwhelming. He probably asks "Mommy?" about 300 times a day, usually to say something like, "Gordon the train goes fast, so he's the express train." It was a relief to talk to another mother at the party today who said that some days, the more time she spends with her older daughter, the more her daughter demands of her. The other day I had to ask Felix to hold off on the chatter and "Mommy?'s" until I could at least finish eating my dinner. Last night he was so excited to have the babysitter come over, pulling her by the hand to show her the toys he had up in his room. But when I got home, she told me Felix said, "I miss my mommy" and got a little teary at one point. How is that possible? I said with a stare of surprise at her. She thought it very endearing of him.

We had spent all that Saturday together with no television interruptions (i.e., plugging him into a video while I do something else). We went swimming at noon, picked up a personal pizza for him and picnicked at the MSU duck pond, he rode his bike with the neighbor kids, then we dug for worms (i.e., weeded the garden) in the front yard.

My present to myself was to go out on a Saturday night to a cafe with a DVD (appropriately, Vera Drake) and laptop to watch a full-length movie I can never watch after Felix's bedtime because he falls asleep too late. Pathetic perhaps, but I didn't feel the least bit sorry for myself, nor the least bit envious of the three guys I saw dancing in the open window of the 317 Bar across the street, their jeaned butts wiggling over the sidewalk.

And I didn't feel the least bit of regret over leaving my job while on campus with Felix at the MSU duck pond. It happened to be graduation day, and I pointed out the robed graduates to Felix while they posed for photos nearby with their families. "PROFESSOR GUGGENHEIM!" I heard someone shout behind us from the plodding line of cars on 11th Avenue that were leaving the ceremony. It was a former student of mine, and I congratulated him saying, "You look really happy!" He said he was "elated" and going to Japan on the JET program soon. In my vanity, I count his going to Japan as a personal victory: his other major was German.

On that bench with Felix and our pizzas, I felt elated myself: I was exactly where I wanted to be.

Warmth in the Cold

Friday afternoon I weeded the front garden where Elise's rose bush is. There are only a few of her daffodils braving the erratic spring so far, but I'm always heartened when I spot another coming up. And they are brave: this morning it is 15 (15!) degrees out and snowing. On April 20th!

This morning I was lying in bed with one eye open, drifting in and out of dreams, when Felix came up to me in his blue footy pajamas. "I will hand you your glasses, Mommy," he said as he gripped them, lenses and all, with his oatmeal-sticky hands.

His face is right at eye level when I'm lying in bed. He pretended to be a spider and tickled my face by "crawling" his fingers up my cheeks. Then he decided my mouth was a fun toy: he wiggled his index finger on the inside of my cheek, fascinated by its smooth wetness. He giggled and giggled as I nibbled on his fingers with my front teeth like they were corn on the cob. He laughed as he pushed on my chin and the top of my head to close my mouth, then demanded I open up again.

Then he climbed up the bed and lay on my back like a baby koala. Our dog Ghenki, seeing he'd vacated her morning greeting spot next to the bed, came over and hopped her front paws on the edge. She licked and licked my hand, as she has always done and always will no matter how many times I say "no" (so I've almost given up after eight years), and I hugged her head to me and patted her back.

What a great way to wake up.

Lightness

This is a picture I took of Felix at the end of a Tuesday we spent together. He likes these rainbow-colored gloves because he can put them on all by himself. Before bedtime, he stood brushing his teeth with one rainbow hand while waving at the mirror with the other.

We have Tuesdays and Thursday afternoons together, and today I was determined to just enjoy him and not worry about meeting time deadlines. These days Felix gets really upset when it's time to stop playing--get off the swing, park the Thomas trains, stop riding his bike--so we can get to the store /make dinner /get ready for bed. Even if we warn him ahead of time, he still mourns in his high-pitched wail when the fun is ending.

I can't blame him. How much do we tell ourselves to enjoy the moment? So I pushed him on the swing today for well over an hour, then we bought him a new bike with training wheels, his first. He didn't ask for one. He just had such a ball trying out the next-door neighbor's, and loves riding his tricycle so much that he pedals all the way to the library and back, which I think is over 1/2 mile round trip, that we wanted to see him on a bicycle. He rode it over to the neighbors' and again we spent as much time having fun as he wanted.

It was soothing for me. I was able to rest my spinning mind just hanging out with him. I started reading Eckhart Tolle's Power of Now, and it really resounds with me. I still am figuring out how to have Elise as a part of my life without letting the pain of losing her define me. I know her death has changed me, and in many ways for the better. But I want to access the peace I know is in me, bring it to the surface again and have it always at hand, just like she is always with me in everything I do.