#SOL17: A New Self-Narrative

(M.A. Reilly, 2017)

Trauma opens up another world to the observer, and thus, in a tragic sense, creates an opportunity to see what would otherwise have remained deeply hidden.”  Ron Eyerman (2011)

Memory is not stable, nor is it singular. It arises in response to need. Sociologist, Sandra Gill, explains that "the past is always a part of the present, yet how it is remembered changes as new needs arise." Her comments resonate as I think about the profoundly different ways I recall Rob's death in this second year.  For example, I recently came across an image I had made of Rob as he was nearing death.  At the time, I didn't recall knowing he was so near death.  Now, I can see how death dogged his features: the change in skin color, the blotchiness, the loosened mouth and slacked jaw, the sunken temples.  I see it all so much more acutely now, knowing that in the hours that followed, Rob would die. The body left behind was no longer him. Knowing this trajectory changes how I remember him and how these memories (in)form who I am becoming.

Part of grieving is assembling a new self-narrative--for me this is one that incorporates the suddenness of Rob's death. Rob went from being asymptomatic, to experiencing a pain in his side, to stage 4 lung cancer diagnosis, a host of medical complications and surgeries, a reliance on pain meds, paralysis, and then death at home within 6 months. I knew bad things happen, but I never imagined such a frightening and speedy death would befall my husband.  I was only 56 when Rob was diagnosed and our son was just 16. It was the end of the summer and I had not imagined my husband would die before spring arrived. I thought the pain he was feeling would likely be muscular and that he would add a pill to his morning routines. It simply never occurred to me that a few months later my husband would be dead.  Even when the prognosis was changes to terminal, I thought Rob and I would have time to say what we each needed to say, to spend some time during those last 3 weeks in more intimate ways. Little of that happened as Rob's deterioration was so rapid.  Further, of those 6 months --100 days were spent in hospitals and the last 20 days of his life was spent at home under hospice care.  Just 2 out of the 6 months were actually spent at home and during that time Rob quickly became less and less ambulatory, until paralysis set in. In the matter of weeks Rob went from walking, to walking with a cane and then a walker, to needing to use a transport chair to paralysis. It all went so quickly. And it is this reality that I now need to integrate into a self-narrative. For now I know that one moment I can be planning a holiday in Maine and the next I am planning a memorial service for a man who always seemed so indomitable.

Losing Rob altered who I am and am becoming. The future we planned is gone. A sense of mortality has been sharpened and this feels even more acute when I consider I am now a single parent to a teenager and my wealth potential has been reduced in half. Gone are Rob's pension and social security. Gone is the wealth he would have generated--wealth we had intended to save for Dev's college payments and our retirement. Now, our son's welfare rests on my shoulders and this too needs to be integrated into that narrative of self.

Grief is never as simple as accepting the reality of a death.  Rather, it is acceptance and the construction of a new self-narrative--one that incorporates these new realities.




Cited

Eyerman, Ron. 2011. The Cultural Sociology of Political Assassination: From MLK and RFK to Fortuyn and van Gogh. New York: Palgrave MacMillan.

Gill, Sandra. 2017. Whites Recall the Civil Rights Movement in Birmingham: We Didn’t Know it was History until after it Happened (Cultural Sociology). Springer International Publishing. 

#SOL17: The Universe Expands Nonetheless

A photo I found of Rob.

I.

There's no logic to it. This evening I found myself expecting to see Rob, as if the last 19 months might be folded away and forgotten.  A mistake. A do over.

Earlier this evening, I was putting away some tape and when I opened the cabinet the smell of Tiger Balm wafted through the air.  The smell was so strong, so familiar. It has been a long, long time since I last smelled that spicy camphor and there it lingered, wrapping its clean scent around me--almost as if I had conjured my husband's arms. Each evening after dinner, Rob would rub a dab into each of his aching hands. A nightly ritual he would perform and then he and I would share tea.

Marriages are made of such ritual.

II.

Later, I was cleaning out a drawer, uncovering much that needed to be thrown out and at the bottom I found a photo of Rob--one I don't recall having seen before.  It seems that I might have lifted the camera and then called him by name. He looked up, having been reading and stared with a slight smile forming.  And as I looked at it, I wondered how could someone so animated be dead? I imagine he's in his late 30s when the photo was taken and what we could not know was that more than half his life was over.

Logic is slippery. I know Rob is dead. I feel the weight of it every day. I know the earth turns, the moon cycles,  and the universe continues to expand, but most days it feels as if none of this could be happening without him.

#SOL17: Officious People

Missing (M.A. Reilly, art journal 2016)

I. 

Ma'am, we can't change that account. Call us back after he's dead.



II.

This was the last comment made by an EZ Pass NJ customer service representative when I phoned EZ Pass NJ in early March, 2016. I made the call while standing in my kitchen, looking at my husband who was sleeping in a hospital bed in the adjacent room. He would die within the week.  I was phoning EZ Pass because Rob's debit card number had been stolen while he was a patient at Kessler Rehab and then used to purchase $800 worth of music equipment from a shop in Tennessee. I had canceled all of his cards and realized I needed to update payment information.

This was relatively easy with the exception of EZ PASS.

I had asked the rep to change the account from Rob's name to mine.  I learned that because Rob was still living, the account could not be changed without his approval. I explained that Rob was dying and unable to communicate as he was comatose.  That's when she said quite chipper, Ma'am, we can't change that account. Call us back after he's dead. 

To say I was shocked would not be hyperbolic. Apparently matters of life and death are not sensitive concerns for some at this NJ office. I needed a death certificate to make an account change, although I was able to change the payment method. Frankly after the abrupt way the representative had spoken to me, I forgot about EZ Pass all together. I had a lot to contend with those days.


III.

A few weeks ago I thought I lost the debit card I use for business expenses.  I have been unusually forgetful this year which I am not surprised by. So, I went on line and cancelled the card only to find it five minutes later in my pocket.  When I got the replacement card, I made the changes to accounts where I had used the previous card very easily.  Then earlier this week, I was traveling through a toll booth on the Garden State Parkway when I got a message to phone EZ Pass and I realized I had not updated the payment method. I tried to take care of that earlier in the week.

Because the EZ Pass account is still in Rob's name and correspondence goes to an email no longer in service, I don't have access to the account number and the representative would not tell me the account number even after I was able to verify the secret pin number, address, etc. Oddly, after that long exchange she asked me to verify who she was speaking with. I told her my name again and she said she could only tell Robert Cohen that information.  I explained again that my husband had died 13 months ago.

You need to send a copy of the death certificate and a letter indicating why you are requesting the account to be changed.  You must include the account number in the letter. 

I'm sorry, but I don't know the account number. I don't receive any information from you as I could not change the account email address last year, just the payment. The email is no longer in use as Rob has died.

Yes, but you must include the account number in the letter in order for us to change the account. 

So, how can I reference the account number in the letter? Are you sure you can't tell me the number? 

No, I can only tell Mr. Cohen. 

After learning that little could be done, I finally thought to ask,  Is there another way I can learn what the account number is? 

Yes, I can send that information to Mr. Cohen in the mail. 

Ok, please do that.

This afternoon an envelope arrived addressed to Mr. Robert Cohen. I suspect Rob is somewhere laughing. Officious people can be tiresome and draining and frankly absurd. For now, the account remains in Rob's name, but I have all the info now.

#SOL17: A Process, A Serial Stalker, and Art

from my art journal. (Feb. 2017)

A theme may seem to have been put aside, but it keeps returning—the same thing modulated, somewhat changed in form. —Muriel Rukeyser 

I.

The weeks leading to the anniversary of Rob's death were more difficult than the actual day. By mid-February, a serial killer stalked my dreams. No matter what time I went to sleep--no matter how long I slept, I kept dreaming similar scenes over and over again. In most of the dreams I was investigating a series of murders. It seemed as if I was a detective. At the end of the dream--what I could remember--I sensed that a killer was stalking me as I tracked him and the fear this generated woke me from my sleep.

I did not know what this dream might mean, but I began to step up my writing.
I wrote most every day.
A lot. Often.

Within a few days of writing, my sleep became easy again, victimless. It remains so.


II.

A few weeks passed without a reoccurrence of the nightmare, but I was still curious. One afternoon, I googled, "What does it mean if you dream about a serial killer stalking you?"  The second explanation offered seemed more probable.

"...a serial killer may reflect a problem that is influencing a lot of other areas of your life. It may also point to reckless belief system "killing off" plans or hopes you had. Positively, a serial killer may represent a serious attempt to deal with a lot of problems at once." (from here).

III.

Is grief a problem?
Is the shock of Rob's illness and death a problem?

Grief as a natural expression of sorrow, not a medical malady. Working through grief is in many ways a matter of living in the present--standing where your feet are. I do wonder though about shock and the toll taken during the last 19 months. When I recount what happened most people express genuine disbelief, followed quickly by concern.

The events from diagnosis to death were so extreme,so fast, so relentless. Yes, I suspect the shock and resulting stress have been traumatic. I am not one to dwell in pity and find that being active these last 13 months has helped. Caring for Devon, writing this blog, reading what you and others have to say, keeping an art journal, talking out sorrow with close friends in a bereavement group, attending grief counseling, and walking ( a lot) have all helped. So too has been remembering how much I love my work I do and working full time again. Connecting with teachers and children is restorative.


IV.

Rob used to say that the only way out of something is through it.
This has been a year where walking through the grief, pain, sorrow, loneliness, anger, and loss has been deliberate and necessary.

#SOL16: Writing a Memoir

original watercolor and mixed media painting
 & digital remix (M.A Reilly, March 2017)

I.

I have begun to assemble, write and rewrite what I hope will be a memoir based on Rob's illness and death, and the grief process my son and I have come to know during the last 19 months. I spent most of last weekend assembling the first 350 pages--and these represent the time from the initial diagnosis in August 2015 through June 2016. For some odd reason, I find rereading the posts, emails, and other artifacts I have written and now assembled works best between the hours of 2 a.m. and 8 a.m.

There are two things I notice as I reread: Dev and I have come a good distance since last year. I had no idea when I started writing about Rob's illness, death, and our loss that this record would be so important--that I would forget so much.  As I read some of what I wrote a year ago, I didn't recall feeling so lost and bereft, yet because of the record, I had a written and visual record of the many things I was feeling and learning.

The second theme that seems to be emerging is that the definition of grief is not stable. What grief means and how it is expressed changes across time. It does not hold still.

II.

During the next few weeks I will dig into the writing and see what through lines seem to be emerging--lines I can tug and use to shape the work. My goal is to write an honest account of what it has meant to travel on this journey: a woman in her mid-50s who was awoken by a phone call and learned that her beloved 60-year-old husband had lung cancer. I want to retell the six months of Rob's illness, his many fights to survive the three staph infections, the treatments, the long hospital stays, the drugs that confused him, and eventually his death. I want to show how all of that opened new sorrows sometimes too much to bear and possibilities.  I want to show how all of this affected our then just turned 17-year-old son and myself.  Mostly though, I want to write about the enduring power of love and how even that knowledge some days does not dull the hurt.

Now a single mom, a widow with a child finishing high school and off to college next year, I want to share how these last 19 months have (re)shaped me and him, requiring each of us to learn new definitions of bravery--the two most critical being: asking for help and claiming responsibility for our lives.

#SOL17: Everybody Dance Now

I was reading a post by Michael Doyle, Happiness IV, Keep Moving, in which he advocates dancing--moving the body. This got me thinking about two things: I had just read about dancing in a book, Life is a Verb and I was thinking about Christopher Walken.

First the experiment. In Life Is a Verb: 37 Days To Wake Up, Be Mindful, And Live Intentionally, Patti Digh sets out a set of actions and movements.  The first action in the book is below and it focuses on getting your body in motion. Patti writes:

Action: Mark Twain has said, “On with the dance, let joy be unconfined is my motto, whether there’s any dance to dance or any joy to unconfine.” 

Let’s explore joy for a moment. Put on some music and dance like a five-year-old for two minutes. Then get out your journal and write for three minutes (without pause, without raising your pen from the page or checking for spelling or grammar and all those other things that inhibit the flow of ideas) in response to the following question: What brings me joy? 

After three minutes, read what you have written. Now for three minutes, write a description of the dance that would best demonstrate that joy. Be as detailed as you can in describing the physicality of that dance. How would you move in the world to express that joy? Then write for two minutes on this question: What keeps me from dancing that  dance?

Ok. I'm ready. So I put on the music. Just me and Christopher finding out how to be unconfined for 5 minutes.






Catching my breath and then on to the writing: This I'll do off screen on paper and later I think I'll use it in a painting.

Be back in a few minutes.

A journal spread I wrote on. The pages were the result of cleaning a brayer I was using when making prints.

Final two-page spread in my art journal.

What I noticed while dancing was that I felt joyful and playful. I was happier and not just for those five minutes, but throughout the day. When I decided to cover the writing with paint, I approached it much like the dancing. Play a bit, I thought and see what comes of it.

So are you ready to dance a little?  Dance like you were 5?  I won't tell:)

#SOL17: Live in the Layers

Mono Print Painting (M. A. Reilly, March 2017)

I have walked through many lives,
some of them my own,
and I am not who I was
though some principle of being
abides, from which I struggle
not to stray. 

Stanley Kunitz, The Layers

I. 

What's sacred?  What definitions of self are unwavering? In Stanley Kunitz's poem, the speaker learns, “Live in the layers,/not on the litter.” I have pondered those two lines for a long time, intrigued by their brevity and bigness. There's considerable wisdom in that bit of advice. 

Across the decades, identity layers have been formed and reformed by the attention paid and missed, by pressures and weights, as well as through the many understandings composed while living. Reflection matters. How easy it has been at times to be overly attentive to what rests at the surface, what Kunitz would call the litter.  In the last year, I have learned--out of necessity-- to tune my ears to silence and name those deep strengths and earth-bound truths I call my own.

II.

At the center of my identity is the bone-deep belief that I am highly competent--a problem framer. I remember being so surprised after Rob's death when I had trouble doing ordinary acts, like booking a flight. I sat for hours, unmoving, until I realized that I just had to get on with it. And I did.  

I also am empathic. When I was writing my dissertation, Mikhail Bakhtin's notion of "I for Myself, Myself for Other" was central to the learning theory I would later compose. The self, as Bakhtin said, is always in dialogue with other.  Identity is dialogic--I exist in relationship to others. Even memories that we often think of as private are socially composed. What Bakhtin's writing helped me to learn is that empathy happens in the return to self.

As a child, I came to understand that I was a problem framer and empathic.  Later, I refined these understandings through my roles as wife, mother, sister, friend, teacher, artist, business owner, and now widow. 

III.

Some years ago I wrote a poem that looked at these beginnings based on  George Ella Lyon's poem, "Where I'm From." I wrote it during an exercise in a class.  (I suspect you may have your own version too.) The poem means more now then when I wrote it.  Then I did not have need of the deep, abiding trust in self that this last year has required. These losses, multiple and shattering, have been costly, even though I realize that I am the better for it. 

Like the speaker in Kunitz's poem, as I age, I too have struggled not to stray. 

IV.

Where I'm from (Based on George Ella Lyons' poem) 


Self portrait, March 2017

I am from blocks
of ivory soap
of ice wedged between milk bottles
in the summer,
from the white, gabled home
with dark green shutters,
so solid against sudden storms.
I am from the gnarled Cherry tree,
its pale pink blossoms
translucent
against the wet, black bark.

I’m from tinseled trees and stacks of books
from Catherine Mary and Robert Emmett.
I’m from daily piano scales and two-part Inventions.
From Pop who played ragtime, all the time.
I’m from “batter up,”
and “I was just passin’ the time of day.”
From Marches on Washington
to “say five Hail Marys,”
knowing too well the slim comfort of the confessional--
so dark and thick with secrets.

I’m from Stamullen,
tucked tight alongside the Irish Sea.
From late afternoon tea with those
who came back from the war
and those who could not give up the ghosts.
I am from all of this
from the limbs that formed
those long afternoons
strong in ways I’ve learned to test.

#SOL17: Give Me Things that Don’t Get Lost

Painting w digital remix (M.A. Reilly, 2017)

I. 

Those haunting lines from Neil Young's song, "Old Man" have caught my attention. Young sings,

“Love lost, such a cost.

Give me things that don’t get lost..." 

and I am nodding alongside him--as I too want things that don't get lost. I too have wanted the permanent.

II. 

What are the types of things that don’t get lost? What treasures do we carry that do not have the potential for wandering, migrating?  

Nearly two years ago I wrote that perhaps those people in your life who are your true North are the types that don't get lost. I was thinking about what sticks to you, what stays true through all the changes. A handful of months later, my true North would suddenly die and I would wear that loss like a glove that fits too perfectly, too necessary. 

III.

I thought heartbreak was the result of Rob dying. It was not.

IV.

During the last year, I could not seem to let go of that which was already gone.  The second after Rob took his last breath, he was gone from that body. I remember looking at him and thinking, This is not my husband. This is not my Rob. Nonetheless, I looked for him in all that was familiar, sought the comfort of his company when things felt new, and thought if I practiced being really, really good, he would be able to return. 

I'll tell you now that the main source of my heartache was not letting go of what was already gone.

V.

-->

Love doesn't get lost--even with death.  

It adheres.  

It is bone deep. 

As Devon would tell me one night when sadness was more pronounced than not-- Dad isn't gone, we carry him with us. He made us.

Love endures.

#SOL17: Home

(M.A. Reilly, 2016)

I know/there are days/when the only thing/more brave than leaving /this house/is coming back to it. -Jan Richardson, The Cure for Sorrow: A Book of Blessings for Times of Grief

I.

I love my home.

This house was new when we moved here--not yet a home. During the last 15 years, we made every crack, every chipped paint, ever scratch on the wooden floors.

We leave marks in life--transforming wood and siding; pipes and soffits from house to home.


II.

Everywhere I look I can see Rob, even among the new things he never knew--such as the kitchen table Devon and I bought after Rob died. I imagine Rob saying, Finally and I laughing. He grew to hate the round oak table we had for 14 years and wanted a change.

Now the table is gone. Devon and I rolled it out of the front door, placing on the street in early February, 2016 and in the matter of hours it and the four heavy oak chairs were gone.Someone had come along and claimed the set. We needed to make room for the hospital bed that Rob would need when he came home to die.

And thinking of this imagined exchange between Rob and me helps me to conjure my husband's voice--something I find more difficult to do as time passes. I can place him at the table--a cup of coffee before him in the Black Dog Cafe mug he had used for more than a decade. I can see him there and his hair is long, tied back with whatever piece of leather was handy, but I strain to hear him speak.

The sound of his voice is receding.


III.

Home is where I give my heart to craft the work and art I love, to spend an hour each evening having dinner with my son, to remember the too many memories that we have made here between these walls and beyond them.

Love, like life, are matters of the heart.

#SOL17: Reading and Readers

Devon reading as a child.

I.

I'm reading The End of Your Life Book Club and the author, Will Schwalbe, is describing an exchange he and his mother had regarding Ian McEwan's On Chesil Beach.

He writes,

...I talked about the book's fascinating and melancholy coda, which explains what will happen to each of the two main characters. On Chesil Beach had moved me so much that I didn't want to pick up a new book for awhile" (p.15).

I know just how he feels.


II.

Sometimes when I have read a really good novel--I don't want to pick up a new book for awhile, too. Sometimes it's about the ambiguity.  I need time to think. Other times, it's simply that I am not ready to push those characters who are living in my mind--out, just yet. I don't want to chance having them leave as new characters, settings, and plots from the next book show up.

I think about this desire to not read just yet and how it contrasts with the pace of school reading. There the push to read one text after the next--like eating a steady stream of after-dinner mints, is more often what gets privileged.

And that's a shame.


III.

Where do children learn that there are some books that we savor so much even after we stop reading that we need time to cleanse our pallet before partaking again? Where do children learn that we need time for the characters, the setting, plot, and ambiguities to slip from our daily thoughts?


IV.

I'm a mom. When the Common Core was first published and I read that children would be taught to read texts via the close reading approach for 13 years, I cringed. I remember saying to Rob that if this was the definition of being a proficient reader, I'd prefer Devon not be one. We also were not interested in him being 'college-ready' as determined by a 2-hour test given across three days in May.

We wanted him to savor, reject, argue with, pause, stop, reread, and determine the course of his reading, as he does his life.  We wanted him to be a thoughtful, emotional, confused, and reactionary reader.

Reading well is more about agency, than it is about genre knowledge, plot, theme and the like.

#SOL17: A Reading Habit

Forgetful (M.A. Reilly, 2010)

...Gradually, you will learn acquaintance
With the invisible form of your departed...
                        - John O’Donohue

I. 

A woman. A new widow.
I am reading her like a movie playing slowly,
remembering as I read and nodding alongside her starts and stops.
I know her words like I know my own hands.
Veined.
Deep.
Necessary.


II.

I amassed so many books in the months following Rob's death and read them all in a gulp. I was mad reading, trying to find a shore. 
A spit of ground to stand on. 
Something to make the unfamiliar waves of widowhood more familiar. 

I was so fucking lost.


III.

Some books I best remember, like Paul Kalanithi's When Breath Becomes Air. I read this while Rob was at home dying. 
At night as my husband slept fitfully, I read. 
Most days he was mute and I read. 
Kalanithi's words spoke to me--revealed the shrouded silence of my husband as he died.


IV. 

In the months following Rob's death, I found myself trying to make Spicy Red Lentil and Tomato Curry--Elizabeth Alexander's husband's recipe that she included in her stirring memoir The Light of the World: A Memoir. It is a recounting of her young husband's sudden death and their life together. 

It is painful as it is whole. 


V.

And then there was C.S. Lewis' A Grief Observed. 
I made images with his words. I painted and sketched. 
His words were truths I knew in my bones.


VI. 

Like one reads a treasure map, I studied these books. 
I read them like a mad woman seeking a trail of necessity. 
I wanted direction, knowledge,
a map.


In those early days the world is mostly unformed.

VII.

I have no recipes to pass along here.
No wisdom either.
There are few words I know and none of them heal.

What I do have--is a list.
A list of 50 books that helped me find confidence in words once again.

Sometimes, friends it is that simple.
Reading offered a moment of grace. 

Here's the list (imperfect at that):

1. What the Living Do: Poems (Marie Howe)
2. The Afterlife (not sure of the author. I came home to find this waiting for me from a friend)
3. Daily Meditation book: Healing After Loss
4. The Cure for Sorrow: A Book of Blessings for Times of Grief (Jan Richardson)
5. The Year of Magical Thinking (Joan Didion)
6. Love and Living (Thomas Merton)
7. Hello from Heaven (Bill Guggenheim)
8. The Inner Voice of Love (Henri Nouwen)
9. World Made and Unmade (Jane Mead)
10. A Grief Observed (C.S. Lewis I read this over and over..)
11. When Husbands Die (Shirley McNally)
12. The Light of the World: A Memoir (Elizabeth Alexander)
13. Ambiguous Loss: Learning to Live with Unresolved Grief (Pauline Boss)
14. Widow to Widow (Genevieve Ginsburg)
15. The Other Side of Sadness (George Bonanno)
16. The Gene: An Intimate History (Siddgarta Mukherjee)
17. Heartbroken: Healing from the Loss (Gary Roe)
18. I'm Grieving as Fast as I Can (Linda Feinberg)
19. On Grief and Grieving (Elisabeth Kubler-Ross)
20. The Cancer Journals (Audre Lorde)
21. Mortality (Christopher Hitchens)
22. When Breath Becomes Air (Paul Kalanithi)
23. Second Firsts: Live, Laugh and Love Again (Christina Rasmussen)
24. Getting to the Other Side of Grief (Susan J. Zonnebelt-Smeenge)
25. Gabriel: A Poem (E.D. Hirsch)
26. Final Payment (Mary Gordon)
27. H is for Hawk (Helen Macdonald)
28. Stitches: A Handbook on Meaning, Hope (Anne Lamont)
29. Being Mortal (Atul Gawande)
30. Radical Remissions: Surviving Cancer Against All Odds (Kelly A. Turner)
31. Echoes of Memory (John O'Donohue)
32. Seven Choices: Finding Daylight After Loss Shatters Your World
33. New and Selected Poems, Volume I (Mary Oliver)
34. Thirst (Mary Oliver)
35. The Collected Poems of Emily Dickinson
36. Consolations: The Solace, Nourishment and Underlying Meaning of Everyday Words (David Whyte)
37. Death's Door: Modern Dying and the Ways We Grieve (Sandra Gilbert)
38. Patrimony (Philip Roth)
39. Dying, A Memoir (Cory Taylor)
40. Grief Cottage (Gail Godwin)
41. All at Sea (Decca Aitkenhead)
42. After (Jane Hirshfield)
43. Levels of Living (Julian Barnes)
44. Milk and Honey (Rupi Kaur)
45. Sorry for Your Troubles (Padraig O Tuama)
46. Option B:Facing Adversity, Building Resilience (Sheryl Sandberg, Adam Grant) 
47. Kayak Morning: Reflections on Love, Grief, and Small Boats (Roger Rosenblatt)
48. Grief and it's Transcendence: Memory, Identity, Creativity (Adele Tutter & Leon Wurmser)
49. The Best of Us (Joyce Maynard) 
50. Heaven's Coast: A Memoir (Mark Doty)

#SOL17: What Gets Carried. What Gets Lifted.

from my art journal

Your joy is your sorrow unmasked. Kahlil Gibran

I.

What do you carry in your heart?  What truths does your heart know?

I think about this now and again when I meet strangers in the food store, the library, at the movie theater and sense some sorrow. I know that grief sometimes leaves me weepy in the most public of spaces and have thought afterwards what others might think. This last year has made me wonder more about the weight of the sorrow and the benefit of joy others carry.

To be a widow is to know both.

II.

It is connections with others that lighten my own sorrow and spark joy. A person who simply smiles or acknowledges me with a head nod, or someone who takes time to say a pleasant comment. Earlier in the week I was in line at an airport and the guy in front of me started a discussion about the book I had in hand. Sometimes it is as simple as the person who commented about the weather as I was leaving a coffee shop.

Connections lift us.

III.

Today, I am wondering how I might best help lighten the weight of sorrow that others carry--if only for the moment. How might I bring joy?

Ideas?

#SOL17: Making Comfort

One of the few photographs I have made this year.
(Arles, France, July, 2016)

I.

It's difficult to look at images I've made during the last 20 years. My stomach clenches and that wave of grief powers over me bringing with it memories of Rob and me and Dev.  Sometimes, I stall momentarily in that pain, forgetting how to swallow.

It was Rob who I most always showed new photographs I had made. He was often the first person who saw my work and he encouraged me to exhibit and publish. Now, I think of the time I spent making images--most often a solitary act-- and I would gladly trade every image I ever made to have just a few more minutes with him.

During the last year I have not photographed very often. Yes, I'll snap a quick picture with my phone, but I barely have touched my Nikon during the last 18 months and I have yet to pick of the Leica camera Rob bought me. I can't even say where it is at this moment. Two weeks ago I took my Nikon with me on a 6 mile hike and the feel of the camera in my hands felt natural.

I have yet, however, to look at the images.


II.

In my mind, Rob and I would grow old together and we would take that trip across the United States a decade from now with camera and pen in hand. We had planned to make a book together.  The poet and the artist. I didn't see the possibility that he would die so young and that his life would so quickly be gone. Even though Rob was at home for his last three weeks, he was lucid only now and then and not for any sustained amounts of time. Mostly he was negotiating his leaving the earth. Fifty days prior to that were spent in hospitals. The last sustained conversation--for hours and hours I had with Rob was in late September. Then, we sat up all night and talked. Staph infections, narcotics, and of course--the spread of cancer reduced the quality of time we had together during his last 6 months. Most of that was avoidable, had surgeons and infectious disease doctors done a better job--or even a competent job.

III.

I don't know when I decided to blog about the cancer, Rob's fight, death, and the aftermath of grief. But across these last 18 months, I have written more than 130,000 words and filled several art journals. I never imagined in August 2015 that I would have this record of life. How could I have known? A friend told me that the way I would manage after Rob died was by making things: words on a page, an image in a journal.

And today, nearly 19 months later, I think that perhaps what art making most answers is what we cannot know. And knowing that is why I still lift my camera, still paint, and write most days. It is the need to make, to create that best defines comfort.

#SOL17: 60 Can-Do Girl Protagonists I Wish I Met Years Ago

I can remember as a child skipping meals so I could read.  I would resist the call to lunch on Saturdays. Stretched out on top of the white bed spread in my room, I would read. Novels. I grew up in a home where reading was privileged--so no one thought it too odd that I was choosing to finish that last chapter to two instead of eating a sandwich.

My mom and me. She taught me to love reading by example.

Books brought me to other places, introduced me to people I did not know, and invited me into the ways of the world that were often different from ones I knew by heart. Most of the books, however, celebrated men and boys who could dare and did. I found a glimmer of self, of girlhood, when I got to high school and began to read poetry and fiction written by women and later--feminist novels from the 19th and 20th centuries. These were a far cry from the life I was making as I grew up by the George Washington Bridge. And though the circumstances depicted were very different, the feelings of women doing, knowing, and feeling were not.


In acknowledgement of National Women's History month, I wanted to do a post about more recent picture books I have enjoyed that feature girls doing and being and knowing. In my youth, these books were simply not possible. I am so pleased that more generous and representative publishing is occurring now so that children, especially girls, can see themselves and what is other in the books they read.

In this post, I recommend some picture books that feature can-do girls. Enjoy.

from Every-Day Dress Up

1. Alko, Selina. (2011). Every-Day Dress Up. New York: Knopf Books for Young Readers.
2. Alrawi, Karim. (2000). The Girl Who Lost Her Smile. Illustrated by Stefan Czernecki. Vancouver, BC: Tradewinds.
3. Atkins Jeannine. (2000). Aani and the Tree Huggers. Illustrated by Venantius J. Pinto. New York: Lee and Low Books.
4. Barber, Barbara E. (2013).  Allie’s Basketball Dream. Illustrated by Darryl Ligasan. New York: Lee and Low Books.
5. Beaty, Andrea. (2016). Ada Twist, Scientist. Illustrated by David Roberts. New York: Harry N. Abrams. 
6. Beaty, Andrea. (2013). Rosie Revere, Engineer. Illustrated by David Roberts. New York: Harry N. Abrams. 
7. Been, Steve. (2016). Violet the Pilot. New York: Puffin Books.
8. Brown, Monica. (2011). Marisol McDonald Doesn’t Match/Marisol McDonald no combina. Illustrated by Sara Palacios. San Francisco, CA: Children’s Book Press.
9. Casteñeda, Omar S. (1995). Abuela's Weave. Illustrated by Enrique O. Sanchez. New York: Lee and Low Books.
10. Choi, Yangsook. (2003). The Name Jar. New York: Dragonfly Books.
11. Croza, Laurel. (2014). From There to Here. Illustrated by Matt James. Toronto: Groundwood Books.
12. Croza, Laurel. (2011). I Know Here. Illustrated by Matt James. Toronto: Groundwood Books.
13. Daly, Niki. (2007). Pretty Salma: A Little Red Riding Hood Story from Africa. New York: Clarion Books.
14. DiPucchio, Kelly S. (2012). Grace for President. Illustrated by LeUyen Pham. New York: Disney-Hyperion.
15. Dole, Maura. (2013). Drum, Chavi, Drum! / ¡Toca, Chavi, Toca! Illustrated by Tonel. New York: Lee and Low Books.
16. Elya, Sarah Middleton. (2014). Little Roja Riding Hood. Illustrated by Susan Guevara. New York: G.P. Putnam's Sons Books for Young Readers.
17. Elya, Sarah Middleton. (2006 ). Home at Last. Illustrated by Felipe Davalos. New York: Lee and Low Books.
18. Engle, Margarita. (2015). Drum Dream Girl: How One Girl's Courage Changed Music. Illustrated by Rafael López. New York: HMH Books for Young Readers.
19. Flett, Julie. (Metis and Cree) (2014). Wild Berries. Translated by Earl N. Cook. Vancouver, BC: Simply Read Books.
20. Forman, Ruth. (2014). Young Cornrows Callin Out the Moon. Illustrated by Cbabi Bayoc. New York: Lee & Low Books. 
21. Fosberry, Jennifer. (2010). My Name Is Not Isabella: Just How Big Can a Little Girl Dream? Illustrated by Mike Litwin. Naperville, IL: Sourcebooks Jabberwocky.
22. Gaiman, Neil.  (2005). The Wolves in the Walls. Illustrated by Dave McKean. New York: HarperCollins.
23. Gunning, Monica. (2013). A Shelter in Our Car. Illustrated by Elaine Pedlar. New York: Lee & Low Books. 
24. Haas, Irene. (1975). The Maggie B. New York: Margaret K. McElderry Books.
25. Herrera, Juan Felipe. (2003). Super Cilantro Girl/ La superniña del cilantro. Illustrated by Honorio Robleda Tapia. San Francisco: Children's Book Press.
26. Hohn, Nadia. (2016). Malaika’s Costume. Illustrated by Irene Luxbacher. Toronto, ON: Groundwood Books.
27. Hubbard, Crystal. (2010). Catching the Moon: The Story of a Young Girl's Baseball Dream. Illustrated by Randy Duburke. New York: Lee and Low Books.
28. Isadora, Rachel. (2008). Rapunzel. New York: G.P. Putnam. 
29. Johnson, Angela. (2004). Violet's Music. Illustrated by Laura Huliska-Beith. New York: Dial Books.
30. Krishnaswami, Uma. (2015). Bright Sky, Starry City. Illustrated by Aimée Sicuro. Toronto, ON: Groundwood Books.
31. Lacamara, Laura. (2010). Floating on Mama's Song/Flotando en la cancion de mama. Illustrated by Yuyi Morales. New York: Katherine Tegen Books.
32. Lindenbaum, Pija. (2007). Mini Mia and Her Darling Uncle. Translated by Elisabeth Kalick Dyssegaard. Stockholm: R & S Books.
33. Lofthouse, Liz. (2007).  Ziba Came on a Boat. Illustrated by Robert Ingpen. La Jolla, CA: Kane Miller.
34. Lawson, JonArno. (2015). Sidewalk Flowers. Illustrated by Sydney Smith. Toronto, ON: Groundwood Books.
35. Maclear, Kyo. (2012). Virginia Wolf. Illustrated by Isabelle Arsenault. Tonawanda, NY: Kids Can Press.
36. Malaspina, Ann. (2015). Yasmin's Hammer. Illustrated by Doug Chayka. New York: Lee and Low Books.
37. McKissack, Patricia. (1986). Flossie & the Fox. Illustrated by Rachel Isadora. New York: Dial Books.
38. McKissack, Patricia. (2008). Stitchin' and Pullin': A Gee's Bend Quilt. Illustrated by Cozbi A. Cabrera. New York: Random House Books for Young Readers. 
39. Medina, (2016). Tia Isa Wants a Car.  Illustrated by Claudio Munoz.  Somerset, MA: Candlewick Press.
40. Miyakoshi, Akiko. (2015).  The Tea Party in the Woods. Tonawanda, NY: Kids Can Press.
41. Moon, Nicola. (1997). Lucy’s Picture. New York: Puffin.
42. Noguchi, Rick  & Deneen Jenks. (2016).  Flowers From Mariko. Illustrated by Michelle Reiko Kumata. New York: Lee and Low Books.
43. Nolen, Jerdine. (2002). Raising Dragons. Illustrated by Elise Primavera. San Diego, CA: Harcourt. 
44. Nolen, Jerdine. (2007). Thunder Rose. Illustrated by Kadir Nelson. San Diego, CA: Harcourt. 
45. Polacco, Patricia. (2001). Thank You, Mr. Falker. New York: Philomel.
46. Ramsey, Calvin Alexander. (2010). Ruth and the Green Book. Illustrated by Floyd Cooper. Minneapolis, MN: Carolrhoda Books.
47. Ringgold, Faith. (1996). Tar Beach. New York: Dragonfly Books.
48. Schimel, Lawrence. (2011). Let’s Go See Papa. Illustrated by Alba Marina Rivera. Translated by Elisa Amado. Toronto, ON: Groundwood Books.
49. Seeger, Laura Vaccaro. (2015). I Used To Be Afraid. New York: Roaring Brook Press.
50. Smith, Cynthia Leitich. (2000). Jingle Dancer. Illustrated by Ying-Hwa Hu and Cornelius Van Wright. New York: HarperCollins.
51. Spires, Ashley. (2014). The Most Magnificent Thing. Tonawanda, NY: Kids Can Press.
52. Steig, William. (2011). Brave Irene. New York: Square Fish.
53. Trottier, Maxine. (2011). Migrant. Illustrated by Isabelle Arsenault. Toronto, ON: Groundwood Books.
54. Uegaki, Chieri. (2014). Hana Hashimoto, Sixth Violin. Illustrated by Qin Leng. Tonawanda, NY: Kids Can Press.
55. Waboose, Jan Bordeau. (2000). Sky Sisters. Illustrated by Brian Deines. Tonawanda, NY: Kids Can.
56. Watson, Renee. (2010). A Place Where Hurricanes Happen. Illustrated by Shadra Strickland. NY: Random House.
57. Woloson, Eliza. (2003). My Friend Isabelle. Illustrated by Bryan Gough. Bethesda, MD: Woodbine House.
58. Woodson, Jacqueline. (2013). This Is the Rope: A Story From the Great Migration. Illustrated by James Ransome. New York: Nancy Paulsen Books.
59. Yolen, Jane & Heide Semple. (2010). Not All Princesses Dress in Pink. Illustrated by Anne-Sophie Lanquetin. New York: Simon & Schuster Books for Young Readers.
60. Yolen, Jane. (2000). Not One Damsel in Distress: World Folktales for Strong Girls. Illustrated by Susan Guevara. San Diego: Silver Whistle.

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