Thursday, December 29, 2011

Time Flies

Where ever does time go? It is Thursday in Oz. The date at the top of the previous post is Monday - boxing day in Australia and all the other British colonies.

Of course, it's entirely unimportant where time slips away unless one needs a lost element. Then, it's helpful to know precisely where the past now resides so one can go and find what is needed.

Silly, I know. What is really on my mind is an email I just received from a dear friend who wrote to share with me that her mother, age 94, died on Christmas Eve. A difficult time to say good-bye if one is Christian and my friend is.

To add to the emotional load of the holiday, her husband died on the first day of Kwanzaa, boxing day in Oz and all the other British colonies.

To lose one's mother and one's partner of more than 40 years in three days of what is usually festivities strikes me as an emotional load that would be very difficult to bear or is it bare? I mean, one's emotions are raw leaving one with a minimum of psychological cover behind which to hide. And then there is the whole expectation of community to manage one's self in an appropriate way—to bear up, if you will.

My temptation under these circumstances would be to tell everyone to go away. I'd want to take a long walk in the wilderness, to be left alone with beauty to remember whatever comes to mind about my life with the two loved ones who have departed this plane. I'm not sure my friend has that option, but certainly that is what I wish for her.

The greatest loss I recall in my life was the death of my sister on 4 December 1973. The funeral services took place in the midst of a Michigan winter storm—vicious wind swirling a silent snow through the night air. I walked out of the service, unable to cope with the Christian nonsense, and bundled my core with heavy wool scarves, hat, and coat and walked into that wind, tears streaming down my face - furious with my little sis for abandoning us, for abandoning me. The storm was my helpmate. It gave me something against which to rail, a barrier to penetrate with all the energy I possessed.

I suppose that's the gist of the issue, isn't it. Death leaves us with so little against which to push. It's final. I hate it when a battle is entirely finished and there is nothing in hand to prove that I have tried my utmost to solve the issue or win the day.