I haven’t written much, if anything, of note in the past year. I’ve had a lot to say but not the words to express it, I still don’t, but I never will so I might as well get back to it. Both of my parents died, leaving me and my siblings orphans. My parents weren’t great the way Picasso was great, they were great the way milk is great. Nourishing, constant, available and kind of sweet. I won’t try to capture them here, they were both (individually and as a team) too much to do justice to. No, today I’m just working through the unanticipated impact of their loss, and what I need to do to honor the gifts they gave.
When I say “unanticipated impact” I’m talking about a forcible disconnection from my vision of my future, it just went poof. My day-to-day life moved forward with no outwardly recognizable change, my mood wasn’t significantly changed (though I’ve tended to see things through a darker lens), there was no great shock. But I lost my sense of personal gravity, the ego I call “me” was weightless, drifting, unmoored. Like a pod-person from “Invasion of the Body Snatchers” I looked the same, but there was no “there” there. Loss is something we all share, but our experience of it is unique – like trying to tell a friend about how in love you are expecting them to “get” it – it’s a fools errand. But knowing a thing, and knowing what to do with it are very different states of mind. I’ve known I was “off” since my Father died, but I channeled my energies into trying to bolster my Mom’s journey never fully grasping how completely her sense of life was tied to my Father. That too was a fools errand. One I was happy to attend to. She welcomed her death, for no other reason than she was in pain and had done what she’d wanted to do – seeing no reason to cling to a shadow version of what she had built. Having children who never want to lose you was part of it, she succeeded spectacularly in that.
But one thing my parents were NOT big on was self-pity, life was going to rock you, and it was up to you to determine how it worked out. They continuously taught lessons through their actions, and even for somebody as dense as I am the lessons were undeniable. Sacrifice pays off. Treat people decently and they’ll treat you decently. Hard work toward a goal gets results. Sentimentality isn’t helpful. No use crying over spilt milk. I currently get more mail in my mailbox addressed to my Mother than to myself, a small portion of my week is devoted to dealing with the things that happen when people die. Daily reminders of what is gone. I doubt I’ll every fully alchemize my feelings from sadness to gratitude, but to honor them both, I’m going to try.
This journal entry is a step in that direction, feeling inadequate to express myself accurately (or sufficiently) is the antithesis of being an artist – bad art beats no art every time. A huge chunk of my life is devoted to prosaic nonsense primarily devoted to keeping myself in Pop Tarts and out of prison. This is part of my parents legacy – don’t be a loser, at minimum live at karmic zero (neither a borrower or lender be) and if it’s in you be a net positive to the universe. But over the years I’ve sacrificed greatly to buy myself the freedom to create, something I too often squander, that shit’s got to stop. If I don’t die unexpectedly (no guarantees) I still have time to prepare my body to confront the ravages of age, I have time to create novels that bring some fun to others, I have time to cultivate friendships that enrich and I have time to give back in whatever way I can. Living fully is how I can truly honor the gifts my parents gave me, and that begins now.
