Words get in the way

Whenever I see a Facebook post remarking on a death of a friend or loved one it will ultimately be followed by comments from people expressing “I am sorry for your loss.”  I am guilty of this as well, because sometimes I am clueless as what I should say, or worse, what I should not say.   “I am sorry for your loss” just sounds so hollow to me; meaningless words spoken as rote and as unfeeling as “bless you” to a sneeze or “thank you” for passing a bowl of beans.  “If there’s anything I can do...” is another empty phrase spoken by well-meaning people who lack the gumption to come up with their own ideas of what actually needs to be done.  And saying you’ll pray for them only counts if you actually do pray for them. 

So, what are the proper words to say when facing someone who has lost their very meaning for life?  I remember when my sister died a young friend came to me at the funeral home and hugged me and said something so sweet and thoughtful that I wanted to remember her words forever.  Unfortunately in that moment there were so many people were saying so many different things I forgot her words almost immediately.  I guess it didn’t matter exactly what she said but how she said it.  In the end it was her sincere compassion that touched me deeper than words and has stayed with me for almost 20 years now.

There is nothing that can be said that will remove the pain from the one who has suffered the loss.  Making profound or sentimental statements may make the speaker feel relieved of their sympathetic duty, but words are easily forgotten.  A hug, a look, or even a squeeze of the hand can be more significant than any combination of words.

I know someone who lost a son years ago and recently lost another son unexpectedly.  I have no idea how to express how my heart hurts for her.  If I could remember my young friend’s words from my sister’s funeral I would repeat them verbatim.  If she was near I would give her a hug.  If I had the right words I would tell her to stay strong, don’t worry about making it through the day, but just try to make it through each hour.  I would like to tell her to stay away from the black pit, find a nearby branch and hold on tight because she is important and worthy.  I would even go so far as to say that even though we do not know each other very well I think of her as a friend and I like her very much.  I would tell her all of these things if only I knew the right words.  

“I am sorry for your loss,” is too hollow for someone you care about.  It is just not the right thing to say.  I’m learning.

Rites

There was a baptism during mass today.  I love seeing the sweet babies in their white gowns, so pure, so sweet.  When my children were baptized we gathered after mass in a private ceremony with family.  Nowadays, at my new church at least, the sacrament of baptism is an integral part of the whole mass so everyone in the congregation can be a part of the moment the child’s life is dedicated to God.

Some people disagree with the Catholic tradition of infant baptism and they have valid arguments to the contrary.  However, without going into a theological debate I would surely lose I will say that the other sacraments Catholics receive throughout our lives are built upon and affirm the vows of baptism we could not speak for ourselves as infants.  Even the liturgy of the mass itself is a reaffirmation of our faith. 

As a mother I can say without question that having my babies baptized was a blessing to me.  In the act of baptism I gave them over to God so throughout their lives when they took those scary steps towards independence I reminded myself of their baptisms and it eased the stress of letting go.

My priest, Father Tommy, always gives the parents the option of keeping the actual baptismal vows private or inviting the congregation to join in.  I’ve yet to see parents keep them private, and I’m glad.  It gives me the opportunity to renew my own baptismal vows in the process.  The ritual is portioned throughout the mass and becomes an integrated part of the service for everyone present, solidifying the child’s membership in the community of the church. 

The first part is the baptismal vows.  Father says,

“Do you reject Satan?”  “I do,” I proclaim with conviction.
“And all his works?”  “I do,”  I affirm.
“And all his empty promises?” “ I do.”
“ Do you believe in God, the Father Almighty, creator of heaven earth?”  “ I do.”
“Do you believe in Jesus Christ, his only Son, our Lord, who was born of the Virgin Mary was crucified, died, and was buried, rose from the dead, and is now seated at the right hand of the Father?” “ I do,” I say with a slightly weakened voice.  By this time the emotion of the moment is setting in. 
“Do you believe in the Holy Spirit, the holy Catholic church, the communion of saints, the forgiveness of sins, the resurrection of the body, and life everlasting? ” “ I do,” I say through the lump in my throat wiping the tears that ultimately stream without permission.

This morning I maintained my composure fairly well, but the last baptism got the best of me.  The little girl being baptized a few weeks ago was named Mary Ann, my mother’s name.  Well, one of her names anyway.  By the end of mass little Mary Ann was sound asleep as Father Tommy placed her tiny feet on the altar as a sign of dedication.  My thoughts drifted to my mother and what she may have looked like when she was baptized.  I feel certain the sacramental rite was not celebrated in the communal way it is today.  It was probably more of a formality, a matter of fact, anoint and splash sort of ceremony.  I say this from what I know of my mother’s baptism.

 

The story goes like this.  When my mother was born her parents named her Doris Mae.  When it came time for her baptism her Godmother took her to the church to meet with the priest.  Apparently my Granny didn’t even go to the church, I don’t know why.  When the priest asked “What name do you give…?” her Godmother said Doris Mae.  The priest told her that was a name for a movie star, not a saintly name.  He suggested naming her Mary instead.  But my mother’s Godmother told the priest my mother had a sister named Mary Marie and so they didn’t need another Mary in the family.  He then chose Mary Ann and the matter was settled.  So little Doris Mae was brought home and called Mary Ann from that day forward.  I always wonder what my Granny thought of that, why she didn’t call her Doris anyway.  Knowing her the way I did I imagine she probably just shrugged her shoulders and spouted a sharp quip and then went on about her business of raising her six children.

It wasn’t until she was in her teens and needed a copy of her birth certificate that my mother learned her true name.  She was in disbelief and thought she was adopted.  From then on she went by Doris Mae on any legal documents, pay check, driver’s license, etc. but she was always Mary Ann to the people in her life.

In addition to the thousands of times Mary Ann confirmed her faith in mass she repeated her vows of baptism seven times for her own children and just as many times for her grandchildren.  She took the words as gold and lived a faith-filled life that was an inspiration to me.  My mother may have told me to do as she said, but all the lessons I learned from her were from the way she lived her life.   She was like her own mother in this way and I try to continue the tradition even though I still trip from time to time from veering down a rocky path.  But I know the way home to heaven because she started me on the right road when she had me baptized, and kept steering me in the right direction even though she may not have ever known it.  Well, maybe was knowing it after all.

  

I read, too.

When I was in school I detested writing book reports.  I could never grasp the concept of writing about a book without telling the whole story and giving the ending away.  The exercise always seemed pointless to me.   More times than not I would find the shortest, simplest book and write a double-spaced essay on wide-ruled paper until I met the assigned number of pages.
 

Later, in college, the term changed from book report to critique.  A critique is just a more academic book report but in a critique you have to use words like “man’s struggle against…” and “theme”.   I was a little better at critiques because they were my own thoughts on the subject and as long as I wrote well and thoroughly I couldn’t really have a wrong answer.

This brings me to my theme of the day.  Last night I finished reading The Casual Vacancy, J.K. Rowling’s first published novel after the final Harry Potter installment.  I was so excited to see that she had written another novel that I pre-ordered it months in advance.  Unlike the Harry Potter series that I read the moment I brought them home, I held onto this book for a while, giving it time to breathe.  Then the negative reviews started flowing in, and I set it deep under stacks of other books.  I even resorted to using it as part of a platform I fashioned on the top of the piano on which I built a Christmas vignette, assuring a whole month of not having a chance to pick it up.  I didn’t read the reviews because like Harry I wanted to make my own decision about it’s worth and not base my opinion on someone else’s narrow mind.

Now, almost two years since it was published I finally picked it up and took the plunge.  It was an icy plunge, and many times I wanted to save myself from drowning and sit by a warm fire and then throw the book in the fire for good measure.  I picked it up, I put it down.  I picked it up, and put it down.  Finally, a little over half-way in I picked it up and didn’t, couldn’t, put it down until the end.  

I guess after so many years of pouring her heart into the boy wizard, Rowling needed a change of pace.  I can only think that every vulgarism she withheld from Harry and Hogwarts she spewed into this story like a sigh of relief.  I look at it as her “Girls Gone Wild” moment.  Like a young girl set free in college after fourteen years in a private, Catholic school, she’s twerking on the dance floor.

The underlying struggle in this book was my struggle to find one shred of likeability in any of the characters.  This has got to be the first time I’ve read a book and loathed the characters so much I wanted them all to die painful deaths in the end.  

My purpose is not to tell the story here, so I will only say it is set in charming, scenic village in England that is bordered on one side by the slums of the nearby, larger city.  A parish council seat in the village becomes vacant and there is a rush to fill it before a major funding decision is made.  Conflicts arise between the deep–rooted residents of the village and the residents of the slums who depend on the village for their welfare.  Whoever wins the empty seat will have a direct effect on the future of those living in the slums.   It is rough story wrought with domestic violence, illicit drug use, and promiscuity. 

The only character with any likeability or moral fiber dies in the first few pages.  The only other character I had any interest in had one short scene in the last eighth of the book.  And I only really liked her because she had such disdain for her awful parents.   She sweeps into town in a fast, green BMW and just when you wish she would stay awhile she is gone, only to be mentioned once again in passing.  

There were three others that I rooted for even though none of them were very endearing.  In the end it was these three that put heart into the story even though the heart is covered in mud and slime and takes a tragedy to reveal it.

I never expected this book to be anything like the Harry Potter stories.  That is probably the main reason it took me two years to pick it up; I didn’t want to be disappointed.  Honestly, I did not know what to expect since I didn’t even read the dust jacket.  I’ve made it clear in a previous post how much I admire J.K. Rowling as a writer.  Was I disappointed in her change of voice?  Absolutely not.  Despite the rawness of the story and her despicable characters my respect for J.K. Rowling as a writer has only grown.  When it all boils down her characters may not have been endearing but they were strong.  Each of them had an inner voice that spoke loudly to the reader.  Some shouted and some whispered but they all had a say.  Rowling’s talent shows itself through her character study and her way of tying it all together even when the ends are so loose they almost unravel completely.   I stand by my previous assessment of her work when I called her a genius.  

I judge a book by the way it makes me feel when I finish reading it.  If I can pick up another book immediately then it wasn’t very impressive.  If the story puts me in a funk where I have to replay it over and over then I was moved.  This is one of those that put me in a funk.  I think the reason it affected me so much is that despite the foul, unlikeable characters in play I found bits and pieces of myself in each of them, one in particular, and that is a hard realization to digest.  The feelings of anger, angst, insecurities, disappointment and desperation that undulate through the story will hit a sore spot on even the most level-headed person who thinks they have it all together.

These characters are real people with real problems and vacant dreams.  There is no Felix Felicis to give them good luck.

My advice about this book is to open it with caution. If you are opposed to reading vile language, upsetting situations, and finding a bit of yourself in some really damaged people then do not pick it up.  Don’t even look at it.   Otherwise, read it with an open mind and you might end up like me, surprisingly sad to see it end.

Sounds

I’ve spent the past few days talking and listening.  Friday and Saturday nights I talked to old classmates who had gathered for our 30-year class reunion.  I told them of my life to date, and I listened to their stories as well.  There was much hugging and laughing to go along with the talking and listening.  It was good.

Sunday I went to mass and listened to the readings and the homily about the kingdom of heaven being like a buried treasure.  I listened intently to the visiting priest’s message because I wanted to hear the message the Holy Spirit was speaking through him, but also because he is from Ghana and although he has a perfect grasp of the English language his accent is heavy and difficult to understand.  But as with the international students I service daily and the grandmother who lived with me I know that if I only listen I will understand.  Understanding requires an open heart as well as open ears.  I pity those whose hearts are not open enough to listen.

Yesterday I spent the day with my aunt, my mother’s only living sister.  My sisters, the Artist and one of the twin nieces and I drove to Jackson and wiled away the afternoon prying our 89-year-old aunt with questions about her childhood.  We listened to her stories of her life, and though I did not write any of it down yesterday I recorded it all so I could get it right. When the mood hit me today I took out the voice recorder and listened to yesterday.  So far it’s taken me almost two hours to listen to and transcribe only 36 minutes of the three hours of recording.  This is going to take a while.

I’ve taken a break from all that and I am sitting on my back porch listening yet again.  This time I hear the swishing of the wind as it blows through the tallest pines.  It eases to a soft rattle as it makes its way down through the branches of the water oak near the garage.  And just when I think the breeze has moved on the wind chime at the far end of the porch takes it in and spins it back out in an off-beat melody only a connoisseur of modern jazz could appreciate. 

In the distance I hear the chatter of unidentified birds, and a little closer to me I hear a chirp of a cardinal as it makes it was way down to the sunflower seeds I offered before I sat down. The crows that I have come to admire watched me scatter the seeds and have been making their way in slowly, cawing in a language only they understand.  Yes, it is certainly a language. A sequence of three caws for one message, four for another, short squawks for others, and sounds almost like geese honks and the kazoo-like calls rounding out the code. 

The murder is gathering nearer, eyes on the seed even though I have tried to stop feeding them because they scare the quail.  And although I have a great fondness for their loud caws and sleek blackness I have a stronger fondness for the quail that glide as if floating on an airstream and are reminiscent of the colors and feel of autumn.

The A/C’s condensing unit on the side of the house kicks on with a loud belch and I hear a truck on the other side of the woods changing gears as it speeds to its destination.  The sounds of squirrels scampering atop the wooden fence and through the rain gutters above the porch  remind me that the seed will not last long, and I want to urge the birds to eat quickly or miss out. The sounds of insects, crickets most likely, trill in the foreground, always sounding so close I could catch them, yet always invisible.

My fluffiest cat lies in the cool grassy shade nearby and contemplates her last days, for surely she knows her tumors are multiplying and I cannot allow her to suffer.

As I sit and soak in these sounds I am also listening for my heart to speak some common sense to my brain.  I listen for signs of what is to come of my uncertain future, a time of certain change or the necessity of it anyway.  I am listening for the small, still voice to echo in my ears and tell me every little thing’s gonna be alright.

Then and later

Little bits of New York keep popping up in my life lately.  One niece just came from there and one niece is there now.  Last weekend I was rummaging through old photo albums trying to find a certain picture and I opened up album and out fell a smaller one from my childhood that I had looked high and low for a couple of years ago.  This tatty album that lost its cover long ago holds pictures from my New York vacation around 1974.  There are only a few pictures of the city in the album, and a few more of some time spent at my Aunt Gertrude’s house in Rhode Island.  In the album I found a picture I searched for after my 2012 NYC vacation.  It is a picture of me sitting on the steps of St. Patrick’s Cathedral.  My last trip I had my sister take another picture of me sitting on the steps so I could put them side by side.  Then I couldn’t find the old album until now.

The skinny snaggletoothed little girl holding onto her red socks and smiling for her mama doesn’t bear any outer resemblance to the much too heavy adult woman trying to look pensive for her sister holding the camera.  But the inside hasn’t changed.  The me in the picture on the right, the one whose legs are swollen from seven days of pounding pavement still feels like that eight-year-old girl in the picture on the left.  We share many of the same insecurities; negative body image, social anxieties, fear of pool drains.  Some things do not diminish with age.  The me on the right still daydreams and makes up stories in her head as did the me on the left.  And if I avoid the mirror and pictures comparisons like these I still feel just as skinny.

In the album there are very few pictures of the city.  There’s the one with me on the steps, one of the Empire State Building, a few of the Statue of Liberty, and a couple of a temple of some sort we toured in Chinatown.  That’s it.  Isn’t it ironic that throughout my life I have gravitated to art deco architecture, get teary-eyed when I think of the Statue of Liberty and ended up in a career working with international students, many from China?  OK, I agree those are far reaching comparisons, but something to think about nonetheless.  I feel certain my affection for Lady Liberty stems from the affection I have for my immigrant grandparents who passed her on their way into the New York Harbor.  Finally, growing up in a household where different cultures merged and another language was spoken daily within my earshot is absolutely why I chanced a career with international students.  I feel like I belong with them.

My photo album is also evidence of my life-long enjoyment of photography.  That camera I had in 1974 is probably the first camera I ever owned.  There have been many since, and I still enjoy taking pictures of anything I can frame in the viewfinder.  On my last trip to NYC I took hundreds of photos, not just six or seven, and I think I’ve improved a little.

It’s obvious I liked the Empire State Building even then.  My mother only let me go as high as the first viewing station.  At least I got most of the building in the picture.  The newer picture may be a more interesting composition, but no matter how I tried I never could get a good shot of the whole thing.

Look at this one of the Statue of Liberty.  It is a complete coincidence that I took the same picture from the same perspective as I did so many years ago.  I guess I still have some of the same thought processes as I did when I was eight. Back then I had to look through a tiny viewfinder and I often cut off the tops of things.  In this case it was the Statue of Liberty’s head.  Thirty-eight years later I had a sophisticated camera with a three-inch viewfinder.  I found the Lady’s head and gave it back to her.

I’m not going on a vacation this summer, so this short retrospect has given me a taste of one.  Maybe one day I’ll go to NYC again in person as I currently do in my daydreams.  Or maybe I’ll go somewhere entirely different.  There are still so many things to see through my viewfinder.