I just finished a delightful book, The Jane Austin Book Club, by Karen Joy Fowler. It was 250 short pages long. (There were some extra pages that explained Jane Austin's books, and some other stuff at the end, but the book itself was 250 pages.)
It took me TWO WEEKS to read this book. I teach reading. There is just no excuse for this slowness for a person who is literate, has read hundreds (no, thousands) of books in her lifetime, except that I DON'T HAVE TIME to get deeply involved in a book! Not that I CAN'T get deeply involved, mind you.I just can't sit and read, uninterrupted, until the book is over, the plot has been resolved, the dog has died, true love has won out, or the killer is behind bars.
I have to postpone my reading until I can eke out a few minutes for myself to just READ and let myself "get lost in a good book,"as those posters in my classroom say.
I got to wondering this afternoon if anybody else has this problem??? I also realized that it is truly a MIRACLE that I finished this book in "only" two weeks!!!! (As if that isn't pathetic enough, I have to make excuses for myself, now..........)
For a woman who drags a book to bed with her every night, wouldn't you THINK that I might be reading before I starting making those z sounds? Sometimes I lie there, look at the book next to me, try to warm up the bedding, and feel too weak to even reach out and OPEN the book! And when, and if, I do pick it up, I have to prop the book up onto the pillow next to my sleepy head, just to put it in front of my eyeballs. Then, SLEEP GETS IN THE WAY, and most nights the bookmark drops out and I find the unread object right where I left it when my eyes closed.
Here is how the "miracle" of completing a book in "only" two weeks happened, actually. I sneaked-read. Not with a flashlight under the covers. (I would only have fallen asleep and burned out the flashlight batteries, after all.) Not by dragging the book to the bathroom and staying in there until someone shouts out, "Have you taken up residence in the bathroom????!!!!" That doesn't work, and that's not a very comfortable place to read, anyway.
I HAVE FOUND ALMOST 18 MINUTES AN HOUR to read, simply by using the mute button on my TV when a commercial comes on, and reading until the actual program comes back on!!! (See my post about "Hit that Mute Button," and you will know what I think of the persistent commercials for pharmaceuticals, anyway.) I have discovered that I don't need to watch advertising for automobiles, banking, fast food, ANY food for that matter, or ads advertising the program that's coming on next. Not ads for movies, diet remedies, or those beautiful new chocolate ice cream bars (which I confess was the only ad I had trouble muting.....)
OK, so the plot gets a little disrupted. I put my finger on the spot where I looked back up at the TV and just hold it there until the next "reading session" begins. Since the actual SHOW is shorter than the commercials (or so it seems) I can still maintain the train of thought. Try it!
As a proponent of sustained silent reading (that post will show up after I retire,) and reading in general, it has been hugely upsetting to me that I have so many diversions that my favorite pastime has been neglected.........
ESPECIALLY SINCE I HAVE SHELVES AND PILES OF BOOKS that I "plan" to read. I am celebrating a birthday this week, and in order to read all of those books I would have to live for another fifty years, and read, non-stop, for all of them. As this is NOT my twenty-fifth birthday, that is not a probability. Besides, I keep buying more books, so the piles keep growing...........................
What else do I do to find some literary time? I never leave home without a book in my possession.
I am NOT sitting at stoplights, reading, by the way. But I AM reading in doctor's offices, standing in long lines, waiting in the car, during any "spare" minutes of my half-hour lunch period, or waiting to meet up with someone with whom I am having lunch. Standing in a line at the post office goes a lot quicker with a book, and I've seen jealous stares from co-standers, wishing that they had brought THEIR book along!
I've also begun to have the library reserve the audio version of a book I want to read, and use the driving time to and from work to "listen/read." It makes the trip shorter.
Once I retire (I dream.) I plan to spend a portion of each day just sitting and reading. I want to SIT and read. Not read while I walk or watch TV. I want to have TIME to read, and not to have to fit it into something else I am busy doing!
As a child I used to sit in a tree at the end of my street, nestled into large limbs that held me comfortably, and just READ. I loved the solitary-ness (is this a word?) of it.
Yes, I am a people-person, but sometimes just being quietly alone with a good book is the best company, and the time to read, without interruption, would be wonderful......................
Monday, May 16, 2011
Sunday, May 1, 2011
Grief.............................or, "Cry Me a River"
Yesterday, April 30, it was five years since my thirty year old, first-born child, Philip, died. Today is the day of the week it was, and I will spend today watching the clock, knowing where we were, what we were doing, what we talked about, and what we ate, as the day progresses to the time when I watched him drive out of my driveway to die of heart failure a short time later, that Sunday evening.
I know how today will pass, because I've lived through four other days like this one. I know that I will cry, and I know that I will be exhausted when I go to bed tonight.
Grieving is very hard work. It means opening up your heart and letting the pain of loss truly permeate your soul. It is, as they say, "the price of love." It is, also, as Stephen King said, "...like a drunken houseguest who keeps coming back over and over again, to say goodbye."
It does not leave. But it does change.
I had three years of grief counseling after Philip died, and attribute my knowledge of Myself and Grief to this counseling. There were times I just cried throughout the hour-long session, times I expressed anger, hurt, resentment, and God only knows those feelings that losing one's child evoked. But the good news is that those feelings were expressed.
Right now you are probably saying, "Why is she writing about this?" I am writing about grief today, because it is, now, a part of who I am, and who I will be for the rest of my life. Losing one's child changes a person, and it can be for the better or for the worse. I believe that my counseling experience has made life livable for me. My counselor also formed a support group for some of us.
A group of grievers meets, and the support from these other parents and spouses, who are also grievers, has been a huge part of my wellness. We know how each other feels. We've shared stories of people who have said things like, "Get over it!" or, "You mean you're not over that yet?" or "I cried all day yesterday when I buried my mother, and now I am going to just go on with my life."
We've shared stories of the "signs" that we've received and interpreted as coming from our departed loved ones, and taken joy and hope from the experiences that we've shared. We've truly come to believe, as a group of grievers, that life is eternal. (We've also been amazed when we shared those tales of "signs" with others who say they believe in Eternal Life, and act as if we're crazy when we mention that we've had proof! )
We've cried together, gotten good advice from our grief counselor, our leader, and become dear friends in the process. They say that "grief can change one's address book," and we've also shared some of those stories. It is true. Some friends may have found me gloomy, some co-workers found me less interested in my job, and some people just really don't know what to say, or write, to someone who is deeply grieving. (Which is why they have sympathy cards.)
My address book has changed over the past five years. I have stopped trying to maintain family relationships with relatives who said nothing after Philip died. I wonder if they missed my newsy Christmas letters. (And yes, they did know about Philip.)
Today, this Sunday, is not like a year ago, in that TIME has moved on. The rawness of the grief has healed, somewhat. I calculated that I have now lived for 1,825 days since then. I've gotten up every single day and "put one foot in front of the other," as we say. I've gone through all the stages of grief, on and off again, and finally know that I've reached acceptance. I've had the "magical thinking," had some yelling sessions with God, and cried more tears than I ever knew were humanly possible.
Interestingly, I have grown as a spirit, and as a spiritual person, because of this grief. I've reached out to others who have lost a child: We understand each other. My address book has grown to include a list of like-minded friends, who "get it," when we stare into space for a few minutes, skip a Christmas Eve service, tear up over music, or bring up the name of our loved one during conversation instead of pretending that he or she never existed. This has been my gift from this five years. I have embraced grief, and become a better person because of this, I think.
I have also deeply appreciated my friends and family who have supported me. I've understood that I have reasons to "keep on keeping on," in part, because of the love they've shown me. My beloved husband has heard it all, and he has held my hand, and me, and let me weep. He never told me to stop feeling what I was feeling, as if I could have stopped. He has listened for countless hours about those feelings, and loves me yet.
My friends (the ones still IN the address book) have been wonderful. I cannot name them all, but they know who they are. One sat quietly by my side for an entire day, not talking, while I slept in a chair, early on. Her quiet presence was reassuring. Others sent cards on days that they knew were important to me. Phone calls. Hugs. Meals. Emails. Invitations to be together for dinner, art walks, and coffee. My friends have held me up. To paraphrase something Philip once said, I am rich with friends.
It is now 10:30 AM. Five years ago on that Sunday, at this moment, I was sitting on the porch saying a prayer for my son's health. I know exactly what I prayed for, and how I said it. Philip and Randy were sitting in the kitchen, watching TV and having breakfast. Today I will mark that day, hour by hour, not to be sad about it, but because I had that day. I've come to see it as a gift, that I got to spend that last day of his life with Philip.
We are all touched by grief at some time. It is inescapable. If not, then it would mean that we were solitary individuals, without people who we love, in our lives. Or it would mean that we denied our true feelings, and did not allow ourselves the right to grieve. Stephen King was right. This grief comes back over and over and over again. Many times it slaps me in the face when I least expect it. I know that it will continue to do that.
I've known since I began this blog that I would someday have to write about grief. It is the most awful feeling in the world, without a doubt, in my opinion. When our country's worst enemies' sons and family members have been killed in the turmoil of war in recent years, I have actually felt sorry for those enemies. That's probably part of the lesson of this experience in my life: compassion for others.
Would I change this, in my life, if I could? IN A HEARTBEAT.
But since I have gone past that stage of "magical thinking," and I know I cannot do that, probably what I need to do is let others know that they can live through grief, and more than likely, even when it doesn't seem possible, you will.
copyright: KP Gillenwater
I know how today will pass, because I've lived through four other days like this one. I know that I will cry, and I know that I will be exhausted when I go to bed tonight.
Grieving is very hard work. It means opening up your heart and letting the pain of loss truly permeate your soul. It is, as they say, "the price of love." It is, also, as Stephen King said, "...like a drunken houseguest who keeps coming back over and over again, to say goodbye."
It does not leave. But it does change.
I had three years of grief counseling after Philip died, and attribute my knowledge of Myself and Grief to this counseling. There were times I just cried throughout the hour-long session, times I expressed anger, hurt, resentment, and God only knows those feelings that losing one's child evoked. But the good news is that those feelings were expressed.
Right now you are probably saying, "Why is she writing about this?" I am writing about grief today, because it is, now, a part of who I am, and who I will be for the rest of my life. Losing one's child changes a person, and it can be for the better or for the worse. I believe that my counseling experience has made life livable for me. My counselor also formed a support group for some of us.
A group of grievers meets, and the support from these other parents and spouses, who are also grievers, has been a huge part of my wellness. We know how each other feels. We've shared stories of people who have said things like, "Get over it!" or, "You mean you're not over that yet?" or "I cried all day yesterday when I buried my mother, and now I am going to just go on with my life."
We've shared stories of the "signs" that we've received and interpreted as coming from our departed loved ones, and taken joy and hope from the experiences that we've shared. We've truly come to believe, as a group of grievers, that life is eternal. (We've also been amazed when we shared those tales of "signs" with others who say they believe in Eternal Life, and act as if we're crazy when we mention that we've had proof! )
We've cried together, gotten good advice from our grief counselor, our leader, and become dear friends in the process. They say that "grief can change one's address book," and we've also shared some of those stories. It is true. Some friends may have found me gloomy, some co-workers found me less interested in my job, and some people just really don't know what to say, or write, to someone who is deeply grieving. (Which is why they have sympathy cards.)
My address book has changed over the past five years. I have stopped trying to maintain family relationships with relatives who said nothing after Philip died. I wonder if they missed my newsy Christmas letters. (And yes, they did know about Philip.)
Today, this Sunday, is not like a year ago, in that TIME has moved on. The rawness of the grief has healed, somewhat. I calculated that I have now lived for 1,825 days since then. I've gotten up every single day and "put one foot in front of the other," as we say. I've gone through all the stages of grief, on and off again, and finally know that I've reached acceptance. I've had the "magical thinking," had some yelling sessions with God, and cried more tears than I ever knew were humanly possible.
Interestingly, I have grown as a spirit, and as a spiritual person, because of this grief. I've reached out to others who have lost a child: We understand each other. My address book has grown to include a list of like-minded friends, who "get it," when we stare into space for a few minutes, skip a Christmas Eve service, tear up over music, or bring up the name of our loved one during conversation instead of pretending that he or she never existed. This has been my gift from this five years. I have embraced grief, and become a better person because of this, I think.
I have also deeply appreciated my friends and family who have supported me. I've understood that I have reasons to "keep on keeping on," in part, because of the love they've shown me. My beloved husband has heard it all, and he has held my hand, and me, and let me weep. He never told me to stop feeling what I was feeling, as if I could have stopped. He has listened for countless hours about those feelings, and loves me yet.
My friends (the ones still IN the address book) have been wonderful. I cannot name them all, but they know who they are. One sat quietly by my side for an entire day, not talking, while I slept in a chair, early on. Her quiet presence was reassuring. Others sent cards on days that they knew were important to me. Phone calls. Hugs. Meals. Emails. Invitations to be together for dinner, art walks, and coffee. My friends have held me up. To paraphrase something Philip once said, I am rich with friends.
It is now 10:30 AM. Five years ago on that Sunday, at this moment, I was sitting on the porch saying a prayer for my son's health. I know exactly what I prayed for, and how I said it. Philip and Randy were sitting in the kitchen, watching TV and having breakfast. Today I will mark that day, hour by hour, not to be sad about it, but because I had that day. I've come to see it as a gift, that I got to spend that last day of his life with Philip.
We are all touched by grief at some time. It is inescapable. If not, then it would mean that we were solitary individuals, without people who we love, in our lives. Or it would mean that we denied our true feelings, and did not allow ourselves the right to grieve. Stephen King was right. This grief comes back over and over and over again. Many times it slaps me in the face when I least expect it. I know that it will continue to do that.
I've known since I began this blog that I would someday have to write about grief. It is the most awful feeling in the world, without a doubt, in my opinion. When our country's worst enemies' sons and family members have been killed in the turmoil of war in recent years, I have actually felt sorry for those enemies. That's probably part of the lesson of this experience in my life: compassion for others.
Would I change this, in my life, if I could? IN A HEARTBEAT.
But since I have gone past that stage of "magical thinking," and I know I cannot do that, probably what I need to do is let others know that they can live through grief, and more than likely, even when it doesn't seem possible, you will.
copyright: KP Gillenwater
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