One of the things that I have learned about myself in my almost 43 years is that the depth of my emotions often, if not always, exceeds my ability to express them verbally. Perhaps if I had a running recorder at all times, then I could fully convey the depth of things I feel using words at the exact time that I feel them. Then again, I don’t even know if that would help.
I don’t think I’ve ever been as frustrated with that part of myself as I am now.
Another thing that I have learned is that my memory of how something feels, even though I cannot express those feelings verbally, far exceeds my memory of other things that have happened or that I have encountered in my past. Things like names, dates, facts—even stories or events. I suppose the running recorder would help that as well, for those times when I meet someone and want to remember a story or name or fact that person tells me for some reason—to include in a sermon, to blog about later, or even to recall it for practical purposes, such as a phone number, website, or email address. That is partially why I have begun carrying around a small, leather-bound book with blank pages, in which I can record such things. I can’t seem to remember the actual words that accompany the information or experience, but I can remember how it FELT to be in my skin at that very time, even years later.
I don’t think I’ve ever been as grateful for this part of myself as I am now.
This trip, this experience of being in this place, in Costa Rica, has brought up so many emotions, so many feelings, so many memories. In the past 24 hours, I have seen, heard, and smelled the same things that I did when I was on this same plot of land in 1978, at age 12 with my brother Hunter, who died 18 years later. And in the past week, as I have begun to live into this new reality of my mom’s cancer diagnosis, I am acutely reminded of how it truly felt to live into the reality of Hunter’s death when it seemed more imminent than ever on those hot summer days in Atlanta in 1996.
I don’t yet understand how those memories are connected, really. But I do know that I have experienced these same feelings only once before. And being a “Feeler” on the Myers-Briggs Type Indicator, I find comfort in the familiarity of the feelings. In other words, I am not afraid of them because I know them. I know them intimately.
For better or for worse, these feelings are my long lost friends.
The difference this time is that because I know them, I know that I can actually choose “better” or “worse.” The first time they walked through my door, I had no idea what the gaping hole that Hunter’s death would bring might feel like. I was afraid of it. I did not know it. I did not know a death that would reach down and grab my very heart and soul and wrench it time and time again. And it scared me.
But this time I do, and I am not afraid. This time, I know that the death of a loved one’s body does not have anything to do with the relationship we have with that loved one. My brother Hunter, whom I adored, and whom I am told adored me even more, is still a very real part of my life. I have never been as sure of that as I am now, experiencing this country he loved among people he loved, taking in sights and sounds and smells that he loved. I realize that Hunter is just as much as part of my life now as he was when we rode those horses together on this very beach all those years ago. He is just as much a part of my life now as he was when we laughed at the antics of a friendly monkey, or when we explored the jetties and tidepools of this beautiful paradise searching for ocean treasures. Hunter & I were and still are connected in a way that I never understood, and have given up trying to understand. Our still-very-much-alive bond has become just another one of those parts of my life. I gave up trying to figure it out long ago, and have come to accept it as it is.
And I thank God for it.
In a way that I still do not understand, Hunter is as much a part of my life now as he was when he was alive. A part of me is sad that he is not here to be a real presence, a real part of the boys’ lives, because he was such an amazing person, and they would love him and he would adore them. But the gaping hole that I thought his death would leave is constantly filled abundantly and beyond with memories of him. The absence that I thought would be painful forever overflows with the memories I have of our times together, and with the sure knowledge that we are still connected. We are connected, and so he is still very much with me, a part of me.
So as I live into this new reality that brings along with it feelings that are not so new, I am not afraid. I choose “for better” rather than “for worse,” because I know them. I know the road ahead will not be easy. But I choose this day to do it in full faith and trust that God will be with us every step of the way, I choose to travel this road cloaked in the knowledge that death is not to be feared, because nothing in life or in death can separate us from the love of God...or the love we have for another.
2 comments:
Jill,
What you have said today about Hunter's death and about you gradually realizing that he is with you and part of you always, is very familiar territory to us. Your mother and I have talked some about loosing a son. Our oldest died at 25 -- also in 1996 (March 24th). He, Chris, and his sister, Jess, 23 months younger than he, were as close as twins can sometimes be. And this was a huge help to him as he struggled with depression and eccentricity much of his life.
I did not want the world to go on changing without Chris -- leaving him behind I felt. I watched the constellation, Orion, change position in the sky over that first year after he died. I wanted to tug it back to where it had been the night we flew to San Francisco to be by his side in his last hours. But at the end of that year Orion cycled back to where it had been, and I experienced some odd sense of rightness in its cycle. Somehow I began to breathe again.
After another period of time I began to laugh when I thought of the witty things Chris had done; then -- more time -- talk about his humor, his brilliance, his very effective autodidactic practices, his evolution through Christian scholarship, through Buddhist teachings, then into Hinduism.
Before he left he handed me his prized book, "Miracle of Love, stories about Neem Karoli Baba" written by Ram Dass. "yes, I'll hold this for you." (He was planning to pedal to New Orleans.) "No, I want you to have it. Read it! I think you'll enjoy it as I have."
That was 13 years ago, just about this date. I put this book in a kitchen cabinet -- in a place I knew I could find it. I read a couple of paragraphs now and then. But tonight I saw this in the Introduction: "In the succeeding years, I have found that the absence of his body has not diminished his influence upon my life. To the contrary, with each passing year I have increasingly experienced his presence, his guidance, his love, and, each time I have taken myself too seriously, his cosmic giggle."
Jill,
What you have said today about Hunter's death and about you gradually realizing that he is with you and part of you always, is very familiar territory to us. Your mother and I have talked some about loosing a son. Our oldest died at 25 -- also in 1996 (March 24th). He, Chris, and his sister, Jess, 23 months younger than he, were as close as twins can sometimes be. And this was a huge help to him as he struggled with depression and eccentricity much of his life.
I did not want the world to go on changing without Chris -- leaving him behind I felt. I watched the constellation, Orion, change position in the sky over that first year after he died. I wanted to tug it back to where it had been the night we flew to San Francisco to be by his side in his last hours. But at the end of that year Orion cycled back to where it had been, and I experienced some odd sense of rightness in its cycle. Somehow I began to breathe again.
After another period of time I began to laugh when I thought of the witty things Chris had done; then -- more time -- talk about his humor, his brilliance, his very effective autodidactic practices, his evolution through Christian scholarship, through Buddhist teachings, then into Hinduism.
Before he left he handed me his prized book, "Miracle of Love, stories about Neem Karoli Baba" written by Ram Dass. "yes, I'll hold this for you." (He was planning to pedal to New Orleans.) "No, I want you to have it. Read it! I think you'll enjoy it as I have."
That was 13 years ago, just about this date. I put this book in a kitchen cabinet -- in a place I knew I could find it. I read a couple of paragraphs now and then. But tonight I saw this in the Introduction: "In the succeeding years, I have found that the absence of his body has not diminished his influence upon my life. To the contrary, with each passing year I have increasingly experienced his presence, his guidance, his love, and, each time I have taken myself too seriously, his cosmic giggle."
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