SOME THOUGHTS ABOUT THE CATCHER IN THE RYE

Like many of you, I read The Catcher in The Rye in High School.  I think I liked it.  I don't really remember. 

As my recollection is hazy, I will share this description I found on the internet: 

  

Holden [the teenage protagonist] explains to [his sister] Phoebe that all he wants to be is the catcher in the rye. He pictures himself wearing a giant mitt, ready to catch kids as they fall off a cliff while playing in the rye. The kids represent childhood. The field represents innocence. The fall from the cliff represents the fall from innocence. 

 

I expect we talked about this theme of lost innocence in my English class, but I, at 15 or 16, was barely out of childhood myself. How could I have known what Holden was getting at? Fast forward twenty years to when I had children of my own, and I would have gladly accepted the assistance of Holden’s mitt.

 

I remember looking at my daughters when they were very young and wishing I could protect them from whatever heartaches lay ahead.**  And now, with the world feeling ever more perilous, I wonder what challenges - personal or societal – my grandchildren will face. 

 

Lately, though, my desire to protect others from harm extends beyond children. I don’t just want to preserve the innocence of the young; I want to keep children and adults alike safe from harms and heartbreak of all sorts.  Every day, I encounter or hear about people who are hurting. Today, a friend let me know that the husband of a dear friend of hers had died.  My heart ached for my friend’s friend, although I had never met her.

 

Every day, I read news about people who are living in war zones, hungry and afraid.  I hate my helplessness in the face of this anguish. When I learn of people who have lost their jobs, who are homeless, who are lonely, I want to protect them. I want Holden’s giant mitt to hold back the bombs, to carry food and blankets.

 

Of course, I can barely save myself, let alone anyone else. None of us has much control over very much, really.  At least that’s what we discover when life pulls the rug out from under us. That's what I discovered when my husband was diagnosed with cancer.

 

So, here's what I am (perhaps naively) asking myself today. Isn’t it enough that nature throws illness, hurricanes, floods, earthquakes etc. our way?  Why must we manufacture more destruction?  Why do we rain bombs on civilians? Why do we allow children to go hungry?  Why do we look away from anguish?  Why don't we pool and direct our talents and resources toward helping one another?  We know how to do this. When a natural disaster occurs, people show up to rescue and comfort each other.  When my husband fell sick, then died, friends and family showed up to help us, then me. Why can’t we approach one another with kindness all the time?  Why must humans be so infernally, so maddeningly cruel and self-destructive?

I know what you’re thinking.  It’s human nature to make war. To hoard wealth.  To look the other way.  

 

Maybe.

 

But, "human nature" notwithstanding, I think it's worth it to open our hearts, put on our mitts, and see what can be done.

And as I don't know where to begin, let's start with kindness and generosity close to home.  Perhaps the next step will then become clear.  

May it be so.  

    

                                                                  marek-studzinski-eaHMb9UJT0I-unsplash.jpg

** I wrote about this desire to keep my daughters safe here: https://woacanotes.blogspot.com/2015/03/luck-be-lady_21.html

BUY THE BANANAS

I wrote a little poem.  

Before I share it with you, let me give you the back story.  A couple of weeks ago, I went to a grief support group.  (No, this is not going to be a description of my grief.  Stay with me for a minute.)  There was an older man in the group who had clearly given up.  He told us that his wife had died three years ago, and, although he did not suggest that he was ill, he stated that he didn’t think he would live much longer.  He declared, in a morose attempt at humor, that he was not sure whether he should buy green bananas because he might not live to eat them. 

 

“Oh,” I said.  “Buy the bananas.”  Then, I went home and wrote these lines.

 

 

Buy the bananas 

Watch them ripen

Make banana bread

Take it outside

Savor its warm sweetness

Under the shade of a tree

Think of your sorrows

Think of the gift of taste

 

If you find

You are still here

When the bread is gone

Buy more bananas

Watch them ripen

Make banana pudding

Share it with a neighbor

Tell her your sorrows

Listen to hers

Sit in silence

 

Wait for Spring

Plant some seeds

Water them with your tears

Watch them grow 

Show a little faith

Plant a tree

 

Go to the beach

Build a sandcastle

The sea will take it

Build it anyway

Build a life

Death will take you

Build it anyway

May we all have faith enough to buy the green bananas.  May our sorrows not keep us from living as fully as we can for as long as we can.

 

                                Photo by Deen Md. on Unsplash

THE BED'S TOO BIG/THE FRYING PAN'S TOO WIDE

But when he’s gone

Me and them lonesome blues collide

The bed’s too big

The frying pan’s too wide.

           

              -   Joni Mitchell

  

In the post I wrote a week after my husband's passing, I confessed that I wasn’t ready to say much about being a widow.  It still feels raw and new, but now that a month has passed, I feel ready to share a bit about my experience of widowhood so far.  Once again, I write to sort and process my thoughts. I appreciate your patience with my ramblings – I intend to turn to other subjects soon.

Often, when I awake, I step outside, where I spend some time in the peace of my garden.  One morning, after I had done some watering and weeding, I looked down at my grubby clothes and thought, These are my morning clothes. I quickly noted the pun.  They were, in fact, my mourning clothes.

I continue to suffer from “widow’s brain.”  One day, I stood staring into a cupboard for a long time, before pulling out a mug and making myself a cup of tea.  After carrying it to kitchen table, I discovered the cup that I had already made.  Another day, I broke a glass while putting it in the dishwasher, a simple task that had never confounded me before.  A few days ago, I bought a bag of cat food and left it in the cart when I loaded my other groceries into the car. And then there was the day when I found myself stymied by the thought of preparing food for myself.  I had to call a couple of friends to ask what I should keep on hand in order to make simple meals.

I am having dreams about getting lost on complex staircases or losing my way in the city – my psyche must be attempting to figure out the path ahead.

I am discovering that grief is physical. The night after Bill died, I slept like a rock and woke up exhausted and feeling as if I had been beaten about the head and neck with a two-by-four. Of course, there was exhaustion after the intensity and physical and emotional toll of his final few weeks, but the fatigue has lingered. The nights of good sleep ended after about a week, and now I sleep poorly more-often-than-not. It doesn’t matter how I sleep, though.  Even after a good night, I wake up tired. 

There was relief at first.  Relief that he had left his weary body behind.  Relief that his sons and I would no longer be getting up in the night to administer medications.  Relief that the limbo of the dying process was over. In truth, the life I had been living with Bill had become more memory than reality over the months before his death, as he slept more and more hours each day and had less and less energy for interaction.

So, for a while, I thought I was doing pretty well.  I had some crying jags, but not too many. I started in on the mounds of paperwork attendant to a death.  I spent time with friends and family. I told myself I was OK.

And then, maybe three weeks in, my days became a lot more challenging. Here’s the thing -- I like spending time alone. When Bill would occasionally go away for a few days, I would relish having the house to myself.  But, after two or three days, I would be ready for him to come home.  Now, as time passes, it is becoming more and more real to me that he will not be coming home.  He hasn’t gone to the store.  He hasn’t taken a short trip.  I am repeatedly startled to realize that this is my life now, that I will be moving forward without him. Again, it's not that I mind being alone; it’s that I miss him in all of his particularity. I miss the man he was and the life we shared before his illness took over. 

My tears are flowing more freely now, as I look around and find:

He’s not here to hold me.

He's not here to talk with me.

He's not here to comfort me when I'm upset.

He’s not here to read my writing drafts. (I very nearly got up from my desk to ask him to read over his obituary.)

He’s not here to tell me I am pretty, that I look nice.  (Yes, after twenty years of marriage, he said such things to me almost daily.)

He’s not here to read to the grandkids.

He’s not here to work in the garden with me. 

He’s not here to eat dinner with me. 

He’s not here to hold my hand while we watch TV.

He’s not here to take out the garbage.

He’s not here to answer my phone calls and texts when I’m out.  

He’s not here to drive me crazy.  

Are you surprised by that last one?  Look, he was a gentle, steady, generous guy, but just because he has died, doesn’t mean I have to pretend he was perfect.  He was not.  And neither am I.  So, like most marriages, ours wasn’t perfect.  My speedy Jersey ways would bump up against his midwestern deliberation. I am impatient.  (He was patient with my impatience, bless him.) He was a pack rat. Getting rid of things makes me feel lighter; it made him feel anxious. Still, through it all, whatever our challenges, we loved each other deeply and shared a long-lasting attraction, as well as values and an ever-widening family. We chose each other and were never tempted to quit one other.  

Last Christmas, instead of exchanging gifts, we each wrote a letter to the other.  I keep re-reading his.  He closed it with these words:  “You are the pole against which I lean and I love you dearly.”  And, of course, he was the pole against which I leaned. To mix metaphors a bit, I feel untethered, like I might just float away.  Or to employ yet another metaphor, I have lost my tap root.  Of course, I am fortunate that I have family and friends to tether and root me, to keep me from floating away.  Still, I miss my main tether, my tap root, and expect I always will.

                                    Photo by Allison Saeng for Unsplash

(I cannot close this post without expressing my gratitude for the kindness I have experienced. The friends who have spent time with me.  The friends and family who have called and sent notes and cards.  The friend who helped me to clear out an entire room. The one who carted off medical supplies when I could not think through where to donate them and the one who took away a pile of rags that I didn't want to toss in the garbage -- she even found somewhere to donate those. My daughters and a son-in-law, who moved furniture for me.  Bill's sons and a son-in-law who have kept the lawn mowed. The dear fellow whom I occasionally hire to help with the garden, who refused to let me pay him for the work he did soon after Bill died. The manager of Bill's dentist's office, who, when I called to report Bill's death, told me she had seen his obituary and had written off the balance on his account.  I am sure there is more that I am forgetting.  Recounting all of this moves me to tears.)