My sister and I have noticed some changes in our father.
Whenever we talk to him about ‘old times’ (instead of just sitting there staring vacantly out the window) his eyes fill with tears. He’s not totally crying but something is definitely going on.
We wonder what’s really going through his mind?
It was this thought and some help from the band “Tears for Fears” that are responsible for the inspiration behind this post.
I didn’t plan on posting tonight but sometimes you just have to let some of your writing go.
the Size of Sorrow
Stain my mimeographed life
Wondering if today is some strange and future tomorrow
Time meanders away
some perpetual 36-hour day
But what is the size of sorrow?
a Fool on the hill
a sad silhouette of your absence
what remains breaks the heart of the borrow
Tomorrow is near
like an invisible tear
I’m wondering what is the size of your sorrow?
Can’t say much about this except that McDonald sounds incredible.
Toonz for the weekend, y’all
God, I still love this guy.
And I love this song . . .
“I think I may be beginning to disappear.” – Fiona (Away from Her)
Last night was a deeply emotional night for me.
For the longest time I’ve put off watching a movie called Away from Her
based on the Alice Munro short story called, “The Bear Came Over the Mountain”, a tragic but uplifting tale of a husband and wife of 50 years coming to grips with Alzheimer’s Disease.
It was all too familiar territory for me and I knew instinctively why I hadn’t seen it in the theater.
Sometimes I hate when I’m right.
The internal walls I’d previously built for emotional protection were deteriorating rapidly, waiting patiently to be torn down.
New and stronger walls were waiting in the wings.
Seeing yourself in virtually every scene of a movie is a powerful (and devastating) experience and something has to give.
My already shaky walls began crumbling before my very eyes.
Seemingly insignificant scenes were like storms in the night, moments of illumination exposing moments of denial, the mind’s premeditated closing of the eyes.
I was watching my mother and father on the screen as years of pent up heartbreak gently poured out of me.
And truth be told, it felt like prayer, a long forgotten Hail Mary . . .
I’ve written much about my mother’s many moments of clarity, the small gifts I believe are given to us from up above.
The last minute of the movie contains such a moment, an incredibly beautiful moment.
I could only sit and watch the credits roll by,
letting this “thing” happen, if that makes any sense.
I apologized to my wife for being so weepy.
She hugged me as I knew she would and said, “I understand. It’s okay.”
All the ancient walls inside me came crashing down and as of this morning I’ve already begun new construction, my Extreme Internal Makeover, if you will.
This post isn’t so much about my tears or my outward showing of intense emotion.
It’s about the willingness to ultimately set some of my shadows free.
And so far, it’s all good.
You’ll have to watch the movie to understand the significance of the post title.
I’m not giving anything away . . .
I blame yesterday for
one goodbye I’ll never ever hear;
promises of tomorrow, opaque and empty
Of time, fluid and perpetual
my life seemingly shipwrecks,
splinters of wood and unforgiving rocks bear witness
to the crashing waves surrounding me
I search a deserted harbour for a beacon of light,
and a desperately needed peace . . .
I blame yesterday
for all the wrongs I could never fix;
the hearts, the tender lives, forgettable moments that left me broken and incalculably fragile
Of life, an arid landscape cracks open before me
partially exposing a soft white light, completely obscuring the truth
the Tides continue, fluid and perpetual and it makes me wonder
If I can still believe in this tomorrow
when it’s so damn hard believing in this today . . .
Walking to South Station tonight, I noticed the elaborate and somewhat intricate weaving of people on the streets of Boston.
Sometimes my walk seems perfectly timed as I pass pedestrians in an orchestrated sort of dance, just missing bumping into someone while neon pedestrian lights go white and I walk across the streets unscathed.
Maybe . . .
Something happened last night that I have no reasonable explanation for.
It’s quite simple but it went something like this:
I began thinking about this particular song and went to YouTube to see if I could at least find the video, which I did.
As I listened, I thought of one special person that I had to send this song to.
There was a reason for this intense feeling but it’s a long story, and not for tonight.
I thought about opening my ITunes and buying the song and sending it on but decided it was too damn late to start futzing around with my Nano.
But I did check my Gmail and was surprised to see an an email from a dear friend of mine and in the title it said, “Here you go ~m”.
Curious, I opened the email to find the song I’d just been listening to attached to the email in an ITunes format.
Goosebumps, blessed goosebumps.
There was no logical reason for me to receive this email but there it was. Go figure.
It was an ultra-heavy dose of serendipity, possibly chance but I smiled as I dragged the tune into my ITunes folder.
The story gets more interesting though.
I sent the song sailing over the waves of the internet to a soul that I knew it would appreciate it.
Turns out the song was desperately needed and right on time.
The chain of events that made this happen made me realize that many stories have already been written.
And I felt so blessed and happy to be included in this one.
For Lent (yes, it’s Lent for us Catlicks), I have given up nothing but I have vowed to get on my knees on a nightly basis and pray.
My prayers tonight go out for my friend Gerry and his nephew, Brandon.
Have a serene weekend, folks . . .
See all of you next week.
ps. the candle in the post is for Brandon.
Today was his birthday. Sleep in sweet peace, young man
and to the special lady that has sees the Southern Cross at night
I received a letter today from my sister dated January 21st (one day before my last post).
In it was a poem she’d found many years ago when our mother was entering the late stages of Alzheimer’s.
As twins, we’ve always had an uncanny ability to surprise each other in ways unimaginable.
In light of my recent post, the Frozen Man, I could only smile when I read this poem.
My sister’s timing was perfect. Go figure. 😉
If you have a family member suffering from this disease, print out the following poem and read it often.
My sister said reading it always makes her feel better and she hoped the same for me.
Yeah, it works for me, too . . .
by Louise M Eder
I remember you with my heart
My mind won’t say your name
I can’t recall where I knew you
Who you were
Or who I was.
Maybe I grew up with you
Or maybe we worked together
Or did we bowl together yesterday?
There’s something wrong with my memory
But I do know you
I know I knew you
And I do love you
I know how you make me feel
I remember the feelings we had together.
My heart remembers
It cries out in loneliness for you
For the feelings you give me now.
Today I’m happy that you have come.
When you leave
My mind will not remember that you were here
But my heart remembers
The feeling of friendship
And love returned.
That I am less lonely
And happier today
Because of the feeling
Because you have come.
Please, please don’t forget me
And please don’t stay away
Because of the way my mind acts.
I can still feel you
I can remember with my heart
And a heart memory is maybe
The most important memory of all.
His soul sleeps,
buried far beneath a long forgotten vertical landscape,
yearning for home . . .
it dreams of places remembered; warm places, complete and innocently raw
The perpetual journey through a cobwebbed labyrinth remains a stygian quest at best,
an unanswered prayer, a dimly lit votive, a quiet cry in the dark
the clouds thicken, the earth cools and a winter of the mind settles in
Rolling waves of emotion yield snowflakes of blue
that fall like sleet, slicing the spirit into oh, so many unrecognizable pieces of what used to be a life; where nothing fits or belongs but must somehow remain
still . . .
Who knows when, this sadly shattered thing will end
Only God knows when it started,
But it’s wearing pretty thin, as the winter settles in, covering the frozen man . . .
I’m “lighting” a candle on the blog tonight for a dear friend that’s currently traveling through the sometimes bumpy and complex labyrinth of life.
My wife and I are praying for her to get through this nasty thing.
I understand all too well the power of prayer. So . . .
I’m asking for a few words whispered to the stars, maybe a candle lit in your home tonight in her memory.
My hope is that in several days things will look just a bit brighter.
Take a minute and do me that small favor, okay?
She will appreciate the prayers more than you’ll ever know.
I thank you all sincerely, in advance