Lent Day 10: Grief and the Bronze Medal, but Gold in Our Hearts

Yesterday I wrote about being extremely tired and made an Olympic comparison.  Specifically
I felt like I had left everything (all my energy) at work this week and I didn't get an Olympic medal.

Part of that fatigue was that after many hours of work and having interviewed four library director candidates (I'm on the search committee for our town's public library) on two consecutive nights, I couldn't fall asleep Thursday night.  So I did more of what I've done for 13 nights:  watch more Olympics.

Which was kind of a mistake, because I started something I shouldn't have:  watching the lady's figure skating long program.  I'm not a huge fan of this particular sport, but I do enjoying watching it.  This year I've been amazed by the talent of the top ten skaters.  And two nights prior I felt that I had seen "The Moment" of these Olympic games:  Joannie Rochette skating her short program to a third place standing.  It wasn't just the quality of her performance; it was the fact that she even competed at all after her mother's sudden death just last weekend.  It was an uplifting performance, and it was hard not to get misty-eyed.

So I had to watch Joannie skate again Thursday night... which meant that to watch one skater I'd have to watch the entire "flight" of six skaters (and all without commercial interruption).  It was well worth the time.  It was one of the most riveting Olympic events I've ever watched, with each of the final six having her own scintillating story.  (The schmaltzy NBC late-night round-up said there was one winner but six victors -- which annoyingly was true.)  And the whole world knows now that Joannie had one of the best performances of her life and earned the bronze medal.

Honestly I was on the edge of my seat for her performance.  I just wanted her not to fall -- that is I was rooting for her just to finish so she could honor her mother's memory well.  Her score didn't matter; just the fact that she was competing was honor enough.  When she finished and hugged her father I felt that that was "The Moment of These Games."  And then she won the bronze.  I was definitely misty-eyed.

Today I watched a recorded interview with Joannie by Bob Costsas, who called the performance "grace under pressure."

Here are a few quotes/paraphrases from Joannie that caught my ear:

• "After I saw the body... the only thing I could do to feel alive is to get on the ice."
• "I skated so that 10 years from now, no regrets.  That's what my mom would have wanted me to do."
• "I needed to be be 'Joannie the athlete', not 'Joannie the person.'"
• "It was hard to be in my bubble because my mind was in a million places , not on the ice."
• "My mom always told me when you do something you give it your all."
• When receiving the medal: "On the podium I felt like I was 5 years old because I dreamt of this since I was 5... and I was was thinking of ... the one person who could not watch this moment."
• The attention being tough on her father:  "he's a very quiet person and yet millions of people are watching.   He's very strong."
• "It will be harder when we go back to the family house... I'll need to teach him to cook, clean... all the things my mom did.  He's strong.  He'll be there to support me in the future.
• "I learned English because my mother didn't have a very good education and she wanted me to do all the things I couldn't do in my life, like learn English, almost as if she knew I would be here (in the NBC interview) today."

Absolutely inspiring.

Lent Day 9: (Friday) Fatigue

Exhausted.  Absolutely drained.  That's how I feel at the end of this work week.

I kind of feel like some of the Olympic athletes at the end of their turns -- leaving their "all" on the ice/snow... like I've got nothing left.  (Except I don't have any opportunities to win medals or stand on a podium.)

I'm completely wiped out.  Dog-tired.  Some might say:  dead-tired.



[This blog automatically feeds my Facebook Notes page; click here to see the original blog]

Lent Day 8: Cremation and Distance

(Continued from Lent Day 7, about open casket wakes/visitations)

In discussing with N, my Hindu work colleague (see Lent Prologue), about visitation rituals, he mentioned that after his father had passed away, N had to go back to India for their rituals, one of which was to place his father's bones in the river.  I really didn't get the opportunity to follow up with him what happened before or after that.  He mentioned that part of the ritual because that was the most memorable part of the entire experience, which I imagine was the moment that reality set in.  He also mentioned that the rituals take 12 days, and he believes it takes that much time to forget anything.

In my family, I've had neither experience -- that is, bones in the river or open casket visitation.  All my family members were cremated, and then inurned with a memorial service.  (Well, all but one:  my Uncle Glenn, an Air Force pilot whose jet was shot down during the Vietnam War.  His remains were reclaimed in 1995,  and his teeth are buried in the Punch Bowl (National Memorial Cemetery of the Pacific) in Hawaii, and his bones along with those of his co-pilot are in a joint plot at Arlington.)
More often than not, the memorial was weeks after the death, necessitated by the logistics of relatives traveling great distances.  The farewells were all, well, extrapolated. 

The memorials were all beautiful services with many flowers, meditative music and loving recollections shared by family and friends.  And of course the urn, plus a large photo collage.  There's the same mix of respect, silence and awkward small talk.

Because of the large geographic distance, I've never been with a family member who has died.  Nor have I seen their corpse because of the cremations.  The closest I've come is when I helped pick up my grandmother's ashes from the crematorium, and I asked to see them.  I don't really remember touching the ashes, although I did carry them.  I might have even helped transfer them into the final urn.

But it's not the same as seeing them as they leave (or after they left) us.  I don't know what it's like to say goodbye in that way.  My mom has shared with me the final moments with her mother (in 2001) and her youngest sister (in 2008), but again, that's an extrapolated experience.

I know the day will come when I do experience the reality, in the most visceral sense.  I neither look forward to it or fear it;  it is a part of life.

What else I do know is that I remember each of my relatives (and also friends who have passed) with respect, fondness and love.  Part of them is within me -- within my thoughts and psyche.  Their lives have helped form who I am today.

And yet, as my colleague said to me:  "death is the beginning of all religions..."


[This blog automatically feeds my Facebook Notes page; click here to see the original blog]

Lent Day 7: Inanimation/Animation

"That's not him."

"That's not my dad.  That doesn't look like him at all."

Those are the words my colleague said when I went to the visitation last week.  I hope she doesn't mind me quoting her.  And in fact I would imagine it's not an uncommon thing to hear at a wake.

Open casket viewing is an interesting ritual, and one I'm still not comfortable with even if I've grown accustomed to them.  It's easier if I don't know the deceased because there's a minimal frame of reference.  Having known the person is a bit jarring.  They look like they're sleeping... and for reason I always have the urge to laugh.  It's not the kind of laughter I love -- deep, belly laughs at something hilarious -- but rather the closest thing to nervous laughter (even though stifled) I've ever experienced.  I'm not sure but I always feel like I'm going say or do the wrong thing.

And I'm not a superstitious guy, with the possible exception in softball of stepping into the batter's box and rubbing dirt on my hands and the bat handle.  But one thing I've never shared with anyone before is how frightened I become if I ever find myself lying on my back with my arms crossed as if lain in a casket.  A variation of the "if you keep making that face, it'll freeze that way."


The visitation conversation continued:  "My dad wouldn't believe that he's wearing makeup."  And I replied "Yeah, and that lipstick isn't even his shade."  Yes that's lame, but it's part of the awkwardness of a wake -- the awkward combination of sympathy and small talk.

Yet I think that past all the embalming and makeup, it's the stillness we don't recognize.  We're so accustomed to seeing people, especially loved ones, breathing even in their stillest moments.  It's hard not to be cliched about the breath of life or describing someone as animated, but that's exactly where the pain lies:  in seeing the stark reality of no breath.

Here's a counter-example:  I just came in from walking the dog, and since I hadn't seen Noah all day he decided to join the walk.  When walking past a neighbor's house we saw a big blue tarp covering the hilly lawn -- it's the third time he's built a retaining wall (which is another story altogether).  A wintry night's sudden gust kicked the tarp open like boat's billowing sail, sending the poor dog scampering.  Noah kind of laughed but then realized, "Oh, I can see why Koa did that."  An inanimate object, animated by the wind;  the very opposite of a body without breath.

[to be continued]


[This blog automatically feeds my Facebook Notes page; click here to see the original blog]

Lent Days 5 and 6: Quiet and Focus

Apparently one of the things I cannot do when tired is count.  I marked yesterday's entry incorrectly as Day 6.  So I'm really glad I didn't try balancing my checkbook or working on taxes last night.

There are several sounds that transport me to other times and places, like the cry of a newborn, waves lapping the shore or the automatic transmission of a 1970's Ford -- an LTD to be exact, which always lulled me to sleep on long drives no matter how hard I tried to stay awake.  To this day I'm glad I never driven a similar transmission because I'd be pulled over for DWS -- driving while snoozing if I were lucky enough to survive that situation.

Today I heard the familiar purr and roar of a Honda engine, shifting through local and highway traffic.  I heard it more than I wanted to because this is the first Lenten day in years that I've driven a car for more than a few minutes, and I ached to flip on some tunes or catch some inane sports talk radio or my usual haunt -- news and commentary from NPR.

It's odd, because I have no problem with 'acoustic' walk commuting.  I prefer listening to the wind rustling, birds chirping and especially the sound of motor traffic, essential for pedestrians in a car-centric city like St. Louis.  I can really collect my thoughts during the walks, drifting in and out of task lists or wondering why people (mostly me) do the things they do.

But today I was craving distraction, or something.  I didn't want to hear my faithful Honda engine as my eyes monitored traffic patterns around me.  I wanted to hear the news, badly.  In some ways I felt like Number 5, the robot in "Short Circuit" who achieved sentience in a freak accident and loved learning so much that his favorite line was "more input" (meaning books, movies, etc.).  (And if you haven't seen that movie, Wall-E looked curiously similar to Number 5.)  I wanted to get my news fix so I could be in the loop, in case I actually had the time at work to talk about something, well, other than work.  I enjoy discussing current events, or moreover, hate it when I can't because I've been too busy to stay in touch.

However, today's struggle reminded me that each year, the audio-free commute is one of the best sacrifices I make as part of my Lenten discipline.  I have precious little time to myself and usually have some audio playing all day, like the TV or radio or music.   I might stay "in the loop" but at the expense of listening to myself, and in many ways, listening to God.  It will be interesting to see what happens after Lent and if I continue to write as much when I allow the noise to return... because this last week I've written more consistently than ever before.

Lent Day 6: "Mulligan" Needed

Massive headache, probably from work and the crazy weekend schedule.  Going to bed early and will hopefully write a long entry tomorrow night.

Lent, First Sunday in...

In the church calendar, Sundays are usually known as the "Sundays of" as in the 4th Sunday of Pentecost or the 2nd Sunday of Advent.

But during Lent, they're known as the "Sundays in" as in today is the first Sunday in Lent. If I put my outsider's hat on again (that I grew up outside the church) and do the math geek thing that's hardwired in my genes, there are more than 40 days between Ash Wednesday and Easter Sunday. In fact, it's off by 6 because Sundays don't count. Sundays are mini-Easters and therefore they are "in" rather than part "of" the Lenten season. (And my mother should be proud of me now because as fantastic as my math scores were, I could never choose the proper preposition back in high school -- and she was a high school English teacher.)

Lent Days 3 and 4: Ritual and Meaning

[I was too busy/tired to write last night, but remembered my thoughts for the day vividly.]

The day began with the usual routine, with NPR's Morning Edition blasting just louder than the spray of the shower nozzle. I had mentally tuned out at the end of a story and almost missed their 'tag' between stories, about Joe Biden having a mysterious bruise on his forehead. Actually, it was NPR reporting about how a Sky One News correspondent forgot it was Ash Wednesday and that 'bruise' was mark left by the ashes imposed as part of the Ash Wednesday ritual. Her embarrassed response was quite amusing: "I know that I am a very bad Catholic. I know now that it is Ash Wednesday and I know that those are ashes on his forehead. I hang my head in shame. I'll be back in just a moment." (Link to NPR transcript)

Lent Day 2: Quiet Time and Psalm 51

The new routines continued today, providing an emerging clarity in and of my daily life.

In previous Lenten seasons I have given up favorite foods or activities, but in recent years I've settled on giving up the radio in the car. Without the driving rhythm of music or the steady drone of NPR news or commentary, I would give myself the time to just think while driving... kind of a random patter of thoughts while I navigate through traffic safely. I would also invariably hear if anything was mechanically wrong with the car.

But this year I'm back to being a mass transit commuter, and the one mile walk to the train station is also without tunes or instructional audio like foreign language lessons.

Lent 2010: Prologue

A colleague lost her father over the weekend, and I went to the visitation on Mardi Gras, traditionally the last big bash before Ash Wednesday, the beginning of Lent. For many reasons I was looking forward to Lent, for Christians the season of sacrifice and penance and/or deeper focus of one's faith, depending on who you ask.

I drove from work to the visitation, and gave a ride to our project manager (I'll call him 'N') because he comes from out of town to work in St. Louis during the week. He had never been to a (Christian) visitation, having come from India as a practicing Hindu. He asked if there was anything he needed to know prior to entering the visitation and it led to a fascinating comparison of different mourning rituals.

N shared with me about when his father passed away in India a few years ago, and that after the cremation he had to throw his father's bones in the river. And that after that experience he no longer feared death.

All this discussion led N to a scintillating line, one that topped any of my own personal preparations for Lent, and one that I'll mull over for the entire season of Lent: "Death is the beginning of all religions."

Lent Day 1: Spiritual Hunger

I hunger.

Not in the physical or the emotional sense that have wreaked havoc on my health over the past months from stressing over work and other responsibilities.

No, it's a spiritual hunger, aching for renewal and rejuvenation, seeking a sense of peace with others and with myself. And ultimately, with God. I'm missing joy, but not just the feelings associated with joy -- I sense an evolving cynicism and jadedness that I've often faked and mocked in my younger days. I don't greet the day with the enthusiasm I used to, but rather just gird myself to get through what needs doing, as the Powdermilk Biscuits theme song from Prairie Home Companion likes to remind us.

I enter this Lenten season more eager than I ever have. I've planned small changes in my daily routines to start today, Ash Wednesday, to support renewal of myself - body, mind and soul.