I have this folder of stuff that's been sitting on my desk for two months now, labeled "Home Improvement/Maintenance." It's full of receipts for gutter cleaning, contact information for plumbers, maintenance schedules, and contracts, all related to my condo—my former condo—in Massachusetts.
I brought it to work with the intent of putting it all in an envelope and sending it to the new owner of the place. It's taken me forever, obviously, to getting around to doing anything with it. Today, though, I saw it on my desk and couldn't take it anymore. I chucked it on the floor to take to the main office recycling bin on my next trip towards the door. I'm so glad to be rid of that condo, but I've been holding on to a lot of anger and sadness around it, too, much of that emotion misdirected at the guy who bought the place for what feels to me like a song, a deliberate ripoff, an insulting pittance. He was only getting the best deal he could, but it still hurts, and because of that, I have avoided passing along this information that I hold that could be helpful to him.
Today, though, I'm ready to be done. After my initial, symbolic toss to the floor, I ended up reaching back down and retrieving the folder. I put it in an envelope. I addressed it to the new owner. I put a sticky note on the outside of the folder, "Hope you love the condo as much as I did and that you find this information useful." And at lunch, I'll go mail it from the campus mailroom.
And then I will be free, totally free from any tie to that former home. It's about time. I wish that I were quicker to forgive, that I could let go of things faster. I don't know what I was getting from keeping that packet of information, maybe a subtle sense of power? Whatever it was, I don't need it anymore, and for that, I feel a bit lighter.
24 February 2010
15 February 2010
Doing the Right Thing
A few weeks ago, a student at the college where I work died. She was the victim of an accident and had been in a coma for a while. It was—is—very sad.
Last week, someone pointed out to us that the student's image appeared in a prominently-placed photo on a not-very-prominent page within our website. It's a closeup of her writing on a chalkboard, a lovely, academic image on a page explaining the goals of our current fundraising campaign.
The individual who let us know about this photo did so with the suggestion that we take it down. He thought that stumbling upon the photo could be upsetting to friends and family of the deceased. The suggestion was forwarded to the staff in my office from a VP, who requested that we take care of the situation now. So we did. We found an equally lovely, academic photo of a student reading a book. And just like that, with a few clicks of a mouse and a few lines of code, that dead student, that vibrant girl, that young scholar was gone from our site.
I don't know if, in fact, a family member or friend had expressed concern at seeing the photo or if the person who let us know about it made an assumption about how people would react, likely based on his own reaction. All I know is that while grief may have some predictable patterns and trends, some infamous stages, the way feelings come out in those who are suffering is individual and volatile.
All I can do is think about how I would feel if that had been an image of John. I would have been angry if that photo had been taken down. It would have felt like slap in the face, an attempt to erase him from the world and move on, as though in death, he were no longer good enough for the institution. I liken it to people who hesitate to talk about John for fear of upsetting me. Well, guess what: I'm thinking about him all the time. Bringing up his name is not upsetting, it's just an articulation of what my brain spends an inordinate amount of time thinking about anyway.
Talk about him. Show me pictures. Keep him alive. Hearing about him and seeing him is not a source of pain. In fact, it's pain's antidote.
Last week, someone pointed out to us that the student's image appeared in a prominently-placed photo on a not-very-prominent page within our website. It's a closeup of her writing on a chalkboard, a lovely, academic image on a page explaining the goals of our current fundraising campaign.
The individual who let us know about this photo did so with the suggestion that we take it down. He thought that stumbling upon the photo could be upsetting to friends and family of the deceased. The suggestion was forwarded to the staff in my office from a VP, who requested that we take care of the situation now. So we did. We found an equally lovely, academic photo of a student reading a book. And just like that, with a few clicks of a mouse and a few lines of code, that dead student, that vibrant girl, that young scholar was gone from our site.
I don't know if, in fact, a family member or friend had expressed concern at seeing the photo or if the person who let us know about it made an assumption about how people would react, likely based on his own reaction. All I know is that while grief may have some predictable patterns and trends, some infamous stages, the way feelings come out in those who are suffering is individual and volatile.
All I can do is think about how I would feel if that had been an image of John. I would have been angry if that photo had been taken down. It would have felt like slap in the face, an attempt to erase him from the world and move on, as though in death, he were no longer good enough for the institution. I liken it to people who hesitate to talk about John for fear of upsetting me. Well, guess what: I'm thinking about him all the time. Bringing up his name is not upsetting, it's just an articulation of what my brain spends an inordinate amount of time thinking about anyway.
Talk about him. Show me pictures. Keep him alive. Hearing about him and seeing him is not a source of pain. In fact, it's pain's antidote.
Vintage Maddie and Riley
Check out my friend Jen's blog, the Duck Flies, for some vintage pics of and stories about Maddie and Riley, plus some great photos of her own son, Ben.
Miss you too, friends.
Miss you too, friends.
12 February 2010
Two Things I Love Right Now
This is an oldie but a goodie. I've had Joshua Bell on the brain since going to the symphony last Sunday:
This one is new to me today. The candor brought tears to my eyes.
This one is new to me today. The candor brought tears to my eyes.
A Very Facebook Valentine's Day
My attitude about Valentine's Day has always been pretty much, "Eh, whatever." The reasons behind my ambivalence are the usual: it's a made-up, overcommercialized holiday; if you really love someone, you don't need a special day to tell them; you can't force romance, etc.
But this year, Facebook (of all things) has gotten my emotional knickers in a twist about February 14. Many of my FB friends are jumping on one of those themed status bandwagons, posting an image of themselves with their partner and stating how long they have been together as their update. I have to admit that it tears me up inside to see my friends with their partners, smiling happily, inadvertently boasting and marveling about how long they've been together, celebrating their partnership and love.
I want to be a big enough person to just enjoy seeing the happy photos of my friends. But instead I'm jealous. Just plain jealous.
If John were alive, we would at this point have been together for nearly seven years, married for five. Instead we got almost exactly four years together. I'm grateful for those four years, but I mourn the ones we didn't have.
Valentine's day, you can suck it.
But this year, Facebook (of all things) has gotten my emotional knickers in a twist about February 14. Many of my FB friends are jumping on one of those themed status bandwagons, posting an image of themselves with their partner and stating how long they have been together as their update. I have to admit that it tears me up inside to see my friends with their partners, smiling happily, inadvertently boasting and marveling about how long they've been together, celebrating their partnership and love.
I want to be a big enough person to just enjoy seeing the happy photos of my friends. But instead I'm jealous. Just plain jealous.
If John were alive, we would at this point have been together for nearly seven years, married for five. Instead we got almost exactly four years together. I'm grateful for those four years, but I mourn the ones we didn't have.
Valentine's day, you can suck it.
09 February 2010
I miss John so much today.
It all started last night, the first night in over a week that I was able to take some time to just relax after the kids went to bed. The relaxing couldn't start, however, until I'd packed lunches and put away some groceries and taken out the trash. The damn trash pushed me over the edge. Every week is my week to take out the trash. It seemed emblematic of how I am responsible for everything at our house. I've farmed out some things—certain groceries get delivered, our wonderful nanny does the kids' laundry, Maddie and Riley do little "chores," and we have an every-other-week cleaning lady—but even with all that off my plate, much remains. Most days, it's just life and I'm used to it. Some days, particularly when I'm exhausted and worn down, I miss having a spouse for purely logistical reasons, such as trash duty. This type of spousal longing doesn't usually make me miss John all that much. It makes me miss being married in a generalized way.
But then I start to think about all the far less tangible benefits of having a spouse, the emotional benefits. The way your spouse knows you in a way that no one else does. When I miss that deep understanding and love, then I miss John. He and I struggled as I think most couples do with figuring out how to balance and share the logistics of life, but we had almost no trouble understanding how to love and support each other in ways large and small. It's hard for me to imagine getting that from anyone else.
Perhaps someday I will marry again, perhaps not. All I know for now is that I wish that John were here, for so many reasons. And while the intensity of that feeling will ebb and flow over time, it will never go away.
It all started last night, the first night in over a week that I was able to take some time to just relax after the kids went to bed. The relaxing couldn't start, however, until I'd packed lunches and put away some groceries and taken out the trash. The damn trash pushed me over the edge. Every week is my week to take out the trash. It seemed emblematic of how I am responsible for everything at our house. I've farmed out some things—certain groceries get delivered, our wonderful nanny does the kids' laundry, Maddie and Riley do little "chores," and we have an every-other-week cleaning lady—but even with all that off my plate, much remains. Most days, it's just life and I'm used to it. Some days, particularly when I'm exhausted and worn down, I miss having a spouse for purely logistical reasons, such as trash duty. This type of spousal longing doesn't usually make me miss John all that much. It makes me miss being married in a generalized way.
But then I start to think about all the far less tangible benefits of having a spouse, the emotional benefits. The way your spouse knows you in a way that no one else does. When I miss that deep understanding and love, then I miss John. He and I struggled as I think most couples do with figuring out how to balance and share the logistics of life, but we had almost no trouble understanding how to love and support each other in ways large and small. It's hard for me to imagine getting that from anyone else.
Perhaps someday I will marry again, perhaps not. All I know for now is that I wish that John were here, for so many reasons. And while the intensity of that feeling will ebb and flow over time, it will never go away.
02 February 2010
Nostalgia
I pulled a picture out of Erika's china hutch on Sunday when I was over for dinner. "Check out this photo!" I exclaimed. "It was taken back when we were skinny, Lee had hair, and John was still alive."
Ah, the good ol' days.
Ah, the good ol' days.
01 February 2010
Life in the 'Hood
My house got tagged by gang vandals last week. I live right across the street from a K–8 public school, on a street that hundreds of kids walk down every day. Perfect place to get a gang message across to a lot of impressionable young people. My big, white double garage doors were just too tempting. We discovered the graffiti last Tuesday morning when we went downstairs to go to school and work. Seeing it gave me the same sick, violated feeling I had when my house was broken into during my tenure as a Peace Corps volunteer.
I took pictures of the damage, then called my landlord and the police. The woman on the other end of the graffiti hotline just sighed when I told her what had been written on my garage (XV3 28). "Yup, we see that one a lot. That's the 18th Street gang." My landlord had someone come power wash the writing away by week's end.
According to my neighbor across the street, this is pretty common. Last year, the couple next door's car was tagged. I don't feel unsafe in my neighborhood, but this kind of incident is unsettling. I hated leaving the tags up for even a day; I felt branded and dirty. It was hard to explain it to Maddie and Riley in any meaningful way, although without any explanation at all, they understood that it was not a good thing and that it had been done by people who are not nice.
I hope the doors stay clean for a while. A long while.
*************************
We had dinner with friends last night. There was not enough wine, so Mark and his adolescent son walked a couple of blocks down the road to a convenience store to pick up some more.
"We got locked in the Plaid Pantry!" they exclaimed, looking triumphant upon their return.
Turns out that when they went to pay, no one was at the register and, at first glance, no one was to be found in the store. And the front door was padlocked shut. That's all a little unsettling. They had their phones, and an nearly endless supply of snack food, but they wanted to be at the party.
A little snooping around revealed that the cashier had taken a bathroom and cooler stocking break and, thinking that no one was in the store, had locked the doors so as not to be robbed blind while he was out back. He was startled, and apologetic.
An unexpected way to spend part of Sunday evening, to be sure.
I took pictures of the damage, then called my landlord and the police. The woman on the other end of the graffiti hotline just sighed when I told her what had been written on my garage (XV3 28). "Yup, we see that one a lot. That's the 18th Street gang." My landlord had someone come power wash the writing away by week's end.
According to my neighbor across the street, this is pretty common. Last year, the couple next door's car was tagged. I don't feel unsafe in my neighborhood, but this kind of incident is unsettling. I hated leaving the tags up for even a day; I felt branded and dirty. It was hard to explain it to Maddie and Riley in any meaningful way, although without any explanation at all, they understood that it was not a good thing and that it had been done by people who are not nice.
I hope the doors stay clean for a while. A long while.
*************************
We had dinner with friends last night. There was not enough wine, so Mark and his adolescent son walked a couple of blocks down the road to a convenience store to pick up some more.
"We got locked in the Plaid Pantry!" they exclaimed, looking triumphant upon their return.
Turns out that when they went to pay, no one was at the register and, at first glance, no one was to be found in the store. And the front door was padlocked shut. That's all a little unsettling. They had their phones, and an nearly endless supply of snack food, but they wanted to be at the party.
A little snooping around revealed that the cashier had taken a bathroom and cooler stocking break and, thinking that no one was in the store, had locked the doors so as not to be robbed blind while he was out back. He was startled, and apologetic.
An unexpected way to spend part of Sunday evening, to be sure.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
