I have been on a long blogging hiatus and I'm only peeking out for a moment now, just to say hello and check back in. When I follow my friends' blogs, I always enjoy the feeling of closeness I get from knowing what they're doing and hearing the complexity of their inner worlds, the chaos and joy of their lives. I used to feel the same way about Facebook, but since I've taken a month-long FB hiatus, I don't miss all the extra noise. I check on certain friends as I think of them and that's about all I can handle. No offense to the pet lovers, but I've had my fill of adorable kitten pix to last a lifetime.
I took the picture at the top of this post while driving (I know, I'm wicked, Muriel) and of course it's blurry but it was one of those perfect autumn sunsets on PCH, windows cracked to let in the ocean breeze, a smattering of surfers savoring the glassy waters of Surfrider, and I didn't mind how long it might take for me to get home. As I drove, I considered the life I have now, the life I used to have, the lives of my children...
It's hard to pinpoint exactly when life changed, when I grew up, when I began to truly feel my age... But I feel all of these things now, all of a sudden, even though the feelings crept up gradually and I watched them cover me like fog rolling over a mountain. The strangest realization is, I don't mind aging. I don't mind getting older. I don't mind being called "ma'am" because, frankly, I'm not overly concerned about what strangers might think about me. (That doesn't mean I don't care about them or the rest of humanity; I just don't have time to be all things to all people anymore.)
What I do care about is being there - truly there - for four people: Raf and the girls. In the past few years, something clicked and I finally understood the importance of creating the world and life I wanted, rather than waiting for it to magically occur. And, almost as soon as I had this epiphany, I looked around and noticed that the people I loved most - my immediate family and closest friends - were similarly creating the lives they wanted. I also noticed that many of the people who presented major challenges to me - I couldn't deal with being near them, their "energy" was tough for me to handle - were not actively pursuing or creating a life they loved. And that was a huge revelation.
I guess the main thing I thought, as I drove home in the orange autumn glow of that Malibu sunset, was: when we're actively pursuing our dreams, there's not enough time to contribute to the drama and challenges of the world.
And that's a good thing. Instead of ruminating on negativity, we can choose to focus on the steps we need to take to achieve our greatest dreams. Maybe we get to the "finish line," or maybe we find a new path in the middle of our pursuit and we change direction, following a new passion...
I thought about Frances Mayes recently, the author of the lovely Under the Tuscan Sun books. I met her twice on a single trip to Italy a few years ago - by chance, in two separate cities - and I remember thinking, "Wow, she's got it made. House in Italy, published author. She's set for life." A lot of people/writers may have continued writing only about Italy, continuing the same series about daily life in Cortona. Which she does, of course, but I've been inspired by how she's continued to live the way she wants and contribute to the world by following her passions, with cookbooks, poetry, travel books (about wandering and roaming away from the Tuscan sun), literary fiction... This is not a woman who was content to fall in love, buy a house, fix it up and write about it. Life goes on, new passions present themselves. What is supremely interesting or significant this season may be replaced by a new hobby or passion next season. And, with so many limitless possibilities, there's just no time to waste.
I must go back to the deadline I've created for the "completion" of my current passion, but I hope you're busy enjoying the fruits of this season, and that the next season will bring many more...
Dreams are tricky things, especially after a loved one has died.
I have believed, for quite some time now, that those you've loved on Earth will visit you in your dreams. This theory is somewhat common among psychics and mediums, spiritualists and quack-jobs, as well as those who just want to believe something, to hold onto the love that they shared with someone special who has moved beyond Earth.
Lately, I have been dreaming of Max. Raf does nearly every night - I may have mentioned this before, that it sounds as though his dreamscape is something of a sports lounge for him, his dad and his brother - but it had been a while since I'd dreamed of my brother-in-law, though I think about him nearly every day. In my dreams, he is generally just in the background somewhere, like in a train station or busy public place, hanging out, watching, not being overly conspicuous. I just tend to notice him there and continue on in my dream.
The other day, I asked Emme if she ever thinks about Uncle Max. "Yeah, sometimes," she said. "But usually I'll just see him in my dreams. They're never about him, but he's in them, in the background."
I was struck by how similar our dreams were, and that night I had another dream of Max, much more vivid than usual. He and Raf were sitting side-by-side at a desk, talking low. I couldn't hear them; so, knowing it was my dream, I moved closer so that I could hear them. They looked a little perturbed and said something like, "We're talking business here," a phrase my father-in-law used to say to Emmeline when she was a baby. I wanted to say, "But you're dead, Max, and any time I see you, even in dreams, I want to hear what you have to say, how you are, what your new existence is like!" More or less, I relented and allowed them space, joyous simply for the chance to spend time with him - dreamworld or not.
I discussed this with Raf the next day on a hike with the dog, explaining that I'm glad I at least get to see Max in dreams.
"I don't want to see him in dreams," Raf said sharply. "I want to see him for real."
We walked on, gravel crunching under our shoes. It is my tendency to try to soften the sharpness. I would normally have said, "But we have to be grateful for what we get," but I held my tongue. He's right. Again and again, we are reminded: he's dead.
Over dinner, he said what I'd been thinking but reluctant to ponder aloud. "What if we have been holding onto this belief that when we dream of Max and my dad, or your grandmas or whoever, that they are actually visiting us from the 'Great Beyond'... but it's not that at all?"
I'm sure I muddled through some sort of Pollyanna, cockamamie spin on the spiritual side of dreaming, but today I'm still mulling it over. What if, like everything else we dream, these "visits" with Max are merely the result of our subconscious mind mashing up important bits of our lives like an elaborate re-mix?
There are no answers, and I feel adrift in a sea of questions like this. The saddest thing is that I had been just as comforted by these dreams as if Max had walked through the door of our home, kissing the mezuzah as he entered, filling the room with his booming laugh. I had felt that the grief of our regular life without him - the life in which Raf still has the reflex to text or call Max about little stuff every day, sports, business, Marlowe's lost teeth, where Max is no longer the Uncle Buck-like guardian of our children in our will, where we will now set a place for him, like Elijah, at our Passover table - was balanced by the loving presence of Max in our dreams.
In that last dream, I had said to Max, "Emme says you visit in her dreams, too."
He answered, "Yeah, I don't like to make a big fuss. I just check in, hang out a little."
In a world with no answers, I will have to accept that answer, even if it's only my own mind helping me cope with the emptiness, an elaborate game of talking to myself.
Last week, I was with a very close friend of mine and we were discussing our last lunch together, in which she had admitted a near-paralyzing fear of death. This is a vibrant, easy-to-laugh, easier-to-love woman. She has kids and a loving husband and two very-much-alive parents. She has more friends who would take a bullet for her than our president does. She exudes LIFE - all caps - and is the person I go to when I have fears and troubles in my life.
And so, at the first lunch, I'm sure I was talking about Max or Isaac... I do that a lot, as you know... and I'm sure that I must have allowed a few tears to drip down my cheeks... I do that quite often, too. But my feelings on death have changed dramatically and I have begun to accept it as a part of life, just as important as birth.
At some point, I looked up and my friend was crying. She is always empathetic and compassionate, and we joke that all it takes is a kid singing to make us cry happy tears, but this was very different. She was shaking and could barely talk, but when she did choke out a few words, she was extremely emotional about her fear of dying and leaving behind the people that she loves so dearly, as well as any of them leaving her too early.
As I mentioned, this is someone who I may have pegged as a "life is life, what can you do?" sort of person. But this fear -- the unknown of death -- had gripped her so hard that the mere thought of death or dying was too difficult to even imagine. The best I could do was sit with her, listen, breathe along, be grateful for the moment together, hope for many more.
What I'm learning, in talking to her and many more friends who have shared this same fear of death, is just how common it is for us to be attached to and enmeshed in our mortal coils. I have to admit, I'm damn lucky and I thank Rafael and the skies and earth and moon and sun every day for the life I've got. But what I've felt since the deaths of these people who were so close to me -- and this includes Max, Isaac, three of my grandparents and a very good childhood friend who passed away when we were 15 -- is that the LOVE that we all carry doesn't end. Maybe it's the "energy" that mediums talk about or the dreams that are inhabited by these loved ones, but although they've died and shed their physical beings, they still "live" on.
I described it to my friend as feeling like there's a huge -- imagine my arms out wide like a child trying to throw her arms around the world -- blanket or jacket enveloping me, loving me as I go about my day. No judgment or negative voices, just a beaming light of love warming me. In our old house, I had the distinct feeling of my father-in-law happily "haunting" the upstairs - not jangling chains or knocking stuff over, but proudly watching, hanging out from time to time, checking in on us. It didn't feel creepy or weird, just... loving.
Rather consistently, Raf has had dreams in which he's sitting at his dad's beach house, just hanging out and talking sports with his dad and brother. Sort of the after-death lounge. Previously, even though I'd often had similar dreams in which I'm sitting with my grandmother in her Covina kitchen, I would have said it was our very optimistic unconscious, helping us ease the pain. But now... I'm not sure that it's not the energy of the deceased coming back to check in on us. And, if I'm wrong, I won't know the truth until I'm no longer on the earth. So this is what I'll choose to believe.
The saddest thing, I suppose, is our very human lack of control over nature. We think we can control our "lives" in the same way that we "control" aging with Botox and fitness... but it's artificial. Bad things happen to good people. And good things happen to good people. But we will all experience death at some point - or points - in our lives. I wish I could encourage you to embrace that fact... and have gratitude for the awareness... but the sad fact is that none of us can truly feel the love of life after death until a death has happened. And that love keeps me going, and keeps me *living* to the fullest, even though I have no control over what may happen next.
There's no easy way to end this post of rambling, so I will reiterate the title:
Jump in, in spite of the fear.
