Forest

"The vines attach themselves to the branches when the trees are small, and stay with the trees, growing as they do, until they eventually choke the trees." 

This, from our guide as we walked through the Australian rainforest on our honeymoon. I couldn't draw a metaphor then--we were stupidly, foolishly happy then; relieved to be far from everyone we knew and starting our life together. We couldn't see the vines--the ulcerative colitis setting the stage for the colon cancer that took Paul's life; the way the relationships we held closest would cease to bring us joy--we only saw one another, in this Eden, where the rainforest meets the Great Barrier Reef.

Now I live in the space between the strong trunks of the trees and where the vines curve their seductive and sensual tendrils ever upward. I live where there is beauty, and uncertainty and the constant fear of the inevitable.

I live in the loamy air of the forest, where the greenness hurts my eyes and the humid air makes breathing a struggle. I live where it's uncomfortable, where every step requires an assessment of my footing and an abundance of caution prevents me from making sudden moves.

Like the trees, I keep trying to reach out toward the sky, unfurling my leaves, and extending my branches. But I know what they don't: that the friendly-seeming vines, part of the symbiosis of this forest are wrapping their delicate tentacles around me and threatening to eventually destroy me on their own climb to the light.

I know the path through this forest. It's dark and twisty, winding through dense brush and clearing. I've told friends new to the path that I will walk it with them, because from where I am, it's less scary, even if it's not yet comfortable. I'm not going to tell them about the vines yet; perhaps they will find a path that leads out before they get caught up. Perhaps I will be able to follow them toward the treeline, back to the edge of the reef.

Beyond

At the end of my suffering, there was a door.  I saw it long before I could touch it. I saw it and knew that once I stepped through it, that would be it.  I didn't want to go.  Not even after you all told me it was ok.  I never wanted to go.

There was a moment when I could still hear you, singing "Itsy Bitsy Spider" to Teddy.  I felt you next to me, all the love in your heart for our son and for me.  I knew we were alone, just the three of us, and that the love in that room was flowing seamlessly from me to you to our son. And the door was in reach.  I lifted up my heart, and with an exhale, stepped through.

I immediately wanted to come back. I wanted to be with you and with him so much. I wanted to.  It holds me to you. 

You were sort of right, by the way, when you imagined this side of the door as a giant room filled with tables where people you love who die are able to sit together and talk. I've had fantastic conversations with Einstein and Richard Bach and Robin Williams and Chuck Mangione's band mates who brought us so much joy. I pulled up a chair for your friend Ellen, and have held the tiny hand of Simon as Leslie saw me do in her dream.  

I want you to know that there is a path on this side of the door too. That as far away as I walk, I can still see the door and will know when you come through it a long time from now.

I know you are sad and lonely. I know.  I know how hard this is for you. You are doing a great job even when you feel frustrated.  Forgive yourself when you think you fall short. You are always as I imagined you before we were us. 

I am always with you.  Teddy knows that. You don't want to believe it so much, but you know because you look for me. I see you when you wave at Orion, and when you look for mockingbirds. I see you sign ILY when you see my sign.

Let your heart love your life with all the love I still have for you. 

A Prayer for the Path

May you find it in yourself to forgive those who could not pray with you, those who could not provide what you needed, those who could not hear your silent requests. May you forgive yourself for whatever it is that makes you suffer.

May you find yourself surrounded by love, held in the loving hearts and by the warm embrace of those who remember you at your best. 

May you become attuned to the signs that will appear when you are ready to see and hear them and may they bring you solace. 

May your best memories of your person always bring you comfort.  

May you never forget the feeling of their hand in yours or their arms around you.

May the time which now seems to have stopped restart, and with it, your heart.  

May you find your guide on the path. I wish you good company and good teachers so that you can find your way to the light again.

May you go on, and from your spot, light the way for others.

I wish you love, peace and solace.

Eleven Years

"There are stars whose radiance is visible on earth though they have long been extinct. There are people whose brilliance continues to light the world though they are no longer among the living. These lights are particularly bright when the night is dark."
                                                                                                     - Hannah Senesh


Eleven years.

Just yesterday. And forever ago.

A lifetime. Teddy's lifetime.

I've thought often about how to mark this. I've written so many words, and still return to ones I've written in years past. 

I still remember the dizziness that overtook me when I was asked to put the first bit of earth into the grave where I'd just laid the other half of my heart to rest. This part never leaves me, and my throat still tightens when I hear the sound of dirt on wood. 

I remember the last breath you took and the quiet that followed. I remember the moment I kissed you for the last time and left the bed we shared to tell our family gathered downstairs that you had heard our pleas and prayers and that you had let go.

I remember holding our infant son in the days and nights that followed, wishing beyond reason that I could keep him from ever feeling the pain of this.

I still remember the feeling of never being able to breathe again; of feeling numb, and hot and cold; of drowning in sorrow. 

At your funeral, Rabbi Corngold (z"l) said: 

Here’s a man who adjectives were made for; the really good ones. Living with him, working with him, being friends with him had to have been a wonderful adventure. 

Who knew where he’d turn his brilliant attention and beautiful mind to next? But the choices were never purely cerebral, were they? We commented on this yesterday; they always seemed to emerge from friendships and relationships. If there was an English teacher he liked, he’d devour Victorian poetry. If there was a riding instructor he liked from Hungary, then he’d not just travel to Hungary but learn Hungarian. If the woman he had always been waiting for is Jewish, then he’d learn and embrace Judaism with wisdom, sincerity, and all the right questions. When he had a child, he’d be the best dad for all the time he had, and give all the love and attention his strength would allow. 

If we want to see proof the science of genetics works, let' all just watch what a remarkable man Teddy will become because he has PAUL in him. Like Paul, he is already a little man on the move; he has you all so delightfully trying to keep up. That's the son of Paul...

At 12, Teddy is so much like you. He has your hands, your gait, the shape of your body, the angles of your face. He is going to be tall; he's already my height and still growing. You would be so proud of him and the way he has claimed his space in this world. The two of you would have had some wild rumpuses and outstanding adventures.

I tell Teddy as much as I can remember to fill the gaps for him. I tell Teddy how wholehearted and passionate you were; generous--often to a fault--making sure your friends and family were well cared for, and indulging others in their pursuits. I tell him you were smart, hard working, funny, kind, and genuine, and that you believed that certain experiences were once-in-a-lifetime opportunities and that those should be sought out and shared. I tell him that you were my best friend, my “bashert” and the other part of my heart. I tell him how much loving you changed me. It made me a better person, more capable of loving others, more understanding of myself, and stronger in the places that I once believed irreparably broken.

I tell those who did not know you--or us--that it is you they should thank for the best of who I am now. I wish you could know the exceptional people who are part of our lives now. I believe that you have invited most of them into my life; I feel your hand in this. They bring the best of you to me with their humor, kindness, generosity and willingness to say "yes" when life comes bearing her gifts. They are loving friends, exceptional hosts, spiritual and generous souls who have helped return the color to the edges of a picture that I had let grow dark.

I have struggled these past years to honor your memory. I have let so many days slip by, trying to hold onto the hands of the clock. There are challenges--they are the stuff of life--but there are also great joys, wondrous beauty, laughter, friendship, love and health to celebrate. I miss you in every moment, but it doesn't break my heart the way it once did.

I still collect seashells as you and I once did; I've left seashells on the stone that marks your place on the rare occasion that I am at the cemetery. I feel badly that I don't go more often, but it is not where I find you. All I find there is a gaping wound that never heals. Standing there will never feel better. I would rather carry you with me than leave you there; I would rather remember your life than be consumed by your death. I would rather remember than mourn.

Again tonight, we will turn our eyes to the stars and look for you as we always do, over Orion's shoulder. We will sign "ILY" to the sky. We will mark another year of your brilliant light shining through the dark night, and we will be grateful for the light that still shines because you lived.

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