a whole new world arrives at my door

this week i stumbled onto a new community that has already meant the world to me.  it's a place built for children who are learning to live with loss.  specifically, the loss of a brother, sister, parent, grandparent, or other key person who played a crucial caregiving role in their life.   drownings, alcoholism, heart attacks, suicides, car accidents, death.  death, death, and more death.  all these tender spirits who have sustained the crazy-heavy blow of loss.  Not just any loss, mind you, but loss of the one they relied upon for all of the basics of their life: food, clothing, shelter, love.  or in some cases, it is actually a cocktail of loss.  take one of my new friends for example:  at 13 she lost her grandfather who took care of her, because at 5 she lost her father, and at 4 she lost her mother. 

so many awful stories.  so much pain and sadness.  and yet, to spend time there is to feel this oddest lifting of the spirit.  when i'm there i find my insides fill themselves with hope, with goodness, with fun.  hard to imagine isn't it?  i guess you gotta see it to believe it.

http://www.hellogrief.org/

its the online community of a not-for-profit group that puts on camps for children who are grieving.  pretty cool, what this organization has created.  and how it helps those kids. and their parents.  and the volunteers.  and me.

it's inspirational, in the largest sense of the word, to connect with these precious kids and young adults. to learn from them how to balance the past in all its frail glory into the future with its endless demands of growth.  they gather themselves together, and they do it.  they tackle their futures,  those countless big, first-time grown up things:  they graduate from high school, attend their first class at college, collect new boyfriends, buy new houses, walk down the aisle. birth their first child.  each and every new task that life brings to them, they do without their father.  or their mother.  or both.  their courage empowers me as i begin  to craft my dad-less frame of life.  their friendship humbles me.

Soooo....

not only have i started "friending" people, and creating updates and commenting on the forums and posting cool photos, but i've fleshed out my profile and created an awesome memorial page for dad (if i do say so myself).  and what's more, i've found a whole new way to honor dad.  i've begun to blog.  and as i write, i find myself almost supernaturally filtering my thoughts and feelings in a way that allows me so soon in my grief to avail myself to a kid who might be able to learn from the story i have to tell. it's the most remarkable thing.   i'm speaking honestly.  yes.  i'm honest, vulnerable, raw.  but the me that finds itself on the page is a PG version of me.  it's the same me that found her voice here, but its a gentler, softer me.  


wait.  you don't feel the wonder of this gift that has found its way into my lap?  well, then -- perhaps you've never stared grief between its beady eyes. 


grief, i am sad to discover, is a twisted, unwieldy beast.  it doesn't surrender itself to chirpy wishes or soften when offered a vanilla-flavored dose of vague sentamentality.  it refuses even to bend itself to a heartfelt desire to remember the dead through a pure and simple lens of kindness.  oh no.  grief is not generous, steadfast or warm.  it is a fickle friend, at best; at worst, it is that enemy you must keep closer than a friend. 


so now do you see the beauty of this thing?  i have found another safe place to share my pain.  as i enter the world of these courageous children and teens, i find myself able to use my words to connect.  i don't have to water down the cold, cruel facts of my heart and thus weaken my sense of the truth.  my spirit, on a path all its own, is softening the message to match the heart of my intended audience.  and because it is, i am free to fully connect with them.  my ugly scruffy grief, when brought to the place where children live, is willing to take a gentler stance.  all brutality is set aside as i paint for them pictures of my father.  and me as his daughter.  thank you, grief.  you nasty tender bastard, you.


if i've learned anything from my arcadia families and all my precious neices and nephews, i've learned that kids must be given the truth in a way that nurtures their unformed curves.  their tender developing selves cannot absorb a truth in a form that crushes or cripples.  Our imperfect stories -- yes, even pieces of our darkest, saddest stories, can and should be given to our children as humble gifts of love, but they can only be delivered in the best possible way.  life's hardest lessons colored in gentle, lighter, warmer shades of the harsh, original hue.  of course.  that's where we get baby blue.  and pastel pink.  and lavendar. and lemondrop yellow, and seafoam green.

*              *               *                *                *

so what to do with this space here?  well, perhaps, in order to keep this as my permanent dad memorybook, i'll reprint my Hello Grief posts here.  and perhaps, in keeping with the me that flows like an extension of my body the moment i sit down at this screen,  i'll attach a prefix or a postscript for you.  if i can, i'll add an unfiltered, true-blue take on the topics i'm tackling for myself and those brave souls in my new young world. 

what a great place this is

wow!!  what a great place this is.

over the past weeks, i have been collecting multiple ways to stay "tapped in" to dad and the amazing process of living within his life and death story. 

* Grief Share (a church-run support group that friend jen introduced me to.  which, by the way is very cool in that it is in the back office of a church run coffee house.  never knew that coffee houses had back offices complete with sofas, dvd players, and tissues for tears.  as if coffee houses needed another reason to be cool!)

* Books (still loving the two i found during my quiet days right after dad's passing: Awakening from Grief, by john welshons and A Beautiful Death, by cheryl eckl.  And have spent a few moments in sister cheryl's all-time fav, Heaven, by randy alcorn)

* Tim (turns out, he's got sadness issues of his own to muscle his way through, as a result of his love and care for dad during his final days)

* Dinner Dates with dear friends (whether half the night is all about dad, or i receive just the briefest moment of dad-specific care as a friend imagines my months of pain...you just can't beat surrounding yourself with people you love who made tough choices to walk through loss alongside you)

* Mom and Me, at our new ESL -- that's English-as-a-Second-Language -- class at her community church (ok, dad, this one's not directly about you....but i miss working with mom to tackle your story.  so, in your absence, here's something that i just know you would have been so supportive of.  you always got excited when you thought of things that mom would be so good at doing.  which was often...you always held her in such high esteem!  as a young kid, about 5 or 6 it seems, i actually felt sorry for you -- i had this sinking feeling you just weren't the sharpest tool in the shed.  we can say this one's got YOU written all over it, dad....you were always contrasting mom's brilliance with your own, well, not-so-shiny skill sets.  it was spelling, and english, i think, that did you in.  course within about 7 or 8 years i began to see all that flying of the planes, and all those shimmery buttons on your mess dress uniform, as evidence to the contrary.  what a clever way to help your kids admire their mother!! and -- outside of your design -- in time, it helped your kids come to admire their father, too.)

Tonight, I find myself back here. 

Here, at the place where i went each night to clear my heart in preparation for what lay ahead when i awoke again to a new dad day.  the past several weeks, i've not come to visit.  i guess my heart was spinning in other directions and it didn't seem right to bring it back to relive the details of dad's passing.  but tonight, i come to check just one small thing and before i know it, i'm back.  not fully immersed, but fully partially immersed.  it's September 11th, and September 17th, and the 5 posts in between, that fully partially capture me.  i don't need to relive my sensations (i'm not that very far removed yet) and i don't need to comb the place for new insights (i'm still stumbling over the ones that are already staring me down).  even after hanging out here for an hour or so, i guess i still don't think i need to be here tonight.  But....i must say...MAN IS IT NICE TO BE HERE AGAIN!!! 

i'm kinda surprised:  i'm not reliving the pain, i'm reliving the love.  maybe someday i'll take the time to get back into the heartache etched in all my many words.  but tonight...what amazes me is the love. 

wow.  i remember again why those impossible days weren't unliveable.  the connections made here were powerful.  sustaining.  God's love passed through His people's online presence.  karli, jen, gail, cheryl, D, jb, beth, and so so so  many other good kind souls.  107 comments all told.  pretty wild-cool.

ahhh, i love how God, how He lets life advance, and new things take hold.  new, big things that touch us all...squishy-techy things like blogs and facebook love.  and new, medium-sized things that touch a few.  like gifted authors, and coffee house secret spots, and ESL.  and new, small things -- big things -- that touch just me. 

i get a lot more than just coffee tonight

okay so, dad, it's been two weeks and sixteen minutes since your time of death was announced.

whew. 

i'm glad we're not burying your body until November.  gives us time to adapt, in stages.  and how unbelievably grateful i am that we can honor you at arlington national cemetery.  our nation's capital, the place our whole family feels is a bit like home.

*          *          *          *          *

tonight i'm sitting at my friend's christian-ish coffee shop, elevate.  her young friend nate is singing the blues on the coffee shop stage.  this one song has four lines, i think, or maybe it's actually three, do they call them stanzas? -- that just keep repeating themselves, over and over and over and over.  which is nice for me because eventually the words cut through the fog and i begin to hear what's being said.  and then i discover i like what's being said.  and then i get to write it down.  and then i get to hear it again.  by the time nate's moved on, i know what it is about the words that work for me tonight.  repetition is nice that way, it buys you time.

what am i supposed to say
when the best of me was always you

what am i supposed to do
when i'm all choked up and you're ok

i'm barely breathin'
i just pray to a God i'm not quite believin'

i know the song is about breaking up, a guy and a girl, and i'm not sure what's going on with the praying / not quite believing combo.    but it comes over me, tonight, that these are the sensations of loss.  not all of them, for sure, but some of them.  and loss, in its many forms, always sings a similar sad tune.  lovers. dads. a child, a childhood dog, a lifelong friend.  the strands of loss are universal, i suppose it could be said.

and while the words are not a perfect mirror for me tonight, since i get to hear them over and over and over again, i begin to love the chance i've been given to contemplate the parts that reflect the bits and pieces.

some of my best was embodied in you, dad.

the senseless crying sessions have started, dad, even when i know full well you're more than ok.

ok so yeah sometimes with the crazy tears, they do have a way of getting in the way of the breathing. 

and yeah, i'm not quite sure what's going on with the praying / not quite believing combo, but i'm sure i could do
more of the one and less of the other.

goodnight, dad.
goonight, friends.
xox
k.

SEPTEMBER 17: a fitting tribute to a godly man

oh my goodness. 

how to summarize the life of a man in a service that contains just sixty minutes of time?  how to summarize those sixty minutes here?

*               *              *               *               *

ok so i'm listening to daniel's audio recording of dad's service to try to snag a piece of it to share with you.  to get some sort of focus, some sort of place to begin.

i'm following along with pastor ron's warm welcome, then pastor short's inspired opening prayer.  so far, so good.  i'm catching a sense of where i might want to go.  once daniel can show me how to rewind his fancy program, i'll be able to roll up my sleeves and get to work.

and then, pastor short's prayer is over.  and the long pause begins.  at first i'm thinking we've arrived at the obvious, necessary quiet as one speaker steps away and the next walks forward to begin.  but the long pause continues.  and continues.  and continues.  i notice the silence gradually, as at first i'm filled with my meandering thoughts, this new insight i'm discovering as i consider what i've just heard, in these moments that have passed.  poetry is hidden within every heartfelt effort to honor a man.   in time the silence overtakes my thoughts and a sense of immediacy strikes.  i speak to my mind, come on karen!  you were there!  you can do this!  remember....what comes after the prayer?

and now i remember.  the air force honor guard.  and all of a sudden, it's happening again, in real time in my mind, as the silence continues.

i see eight men march up the center aisle of the chapel, slowly, heads held high. their steps are crisp, their uniforms a picture of perfection.  15 steps and they arrive at the front on the chapel.  in a single smooth motion all eight men stop.  then turn to their left.  five steps more and they are at the foot of dad's casket.  the four airmen on the right begin their steps to align themselves behind dad's casket.  the four on the left begin their steps to align themselves in front of dad's casket.  somehow, my mind has skipped a beat: now all eight are facing dad's casket. it happened, dreamlike, through some sort of secret language these men share; with one simple, crisp command each of them know how to move their legs, their torsos, their arms, ther hands.  and what about their heads?  well their heads, they never move.  but always they are balanced beautifully, setting the tone of their bodies' entire posture: not forward, not back, not up not down.  just perfectly centered.  it's the only message the military knows how to send: singular focus, never waver, always calm, always sure.  dignity, respect.  awareness, gratitude for those who have come before.  faithfulness to their fallen.

and now the flag.  they pick it up and begin the most elaborate ceremony i've ever witnessed in my life.  as a child, dad taught me and my sister this cool folding thing.  we folded anything we could get our hands on this way. although sheets and towels are always fair game, my baby doll blankets work best for my little fingers.  and, clearly, most worthy of the time it takes to do it right.  i love to guess at the perfect place to create the folds so that my finished product is always the proper size.  and then creating the triangle:  once i get the first fold right, the rest is easy.  slow down, i say to myself, and be a little more careful.  never rush or it will look sloppy in the end.  flip over, flip up, flip over, flip down.  no matter how slowly i go, this part is always over too soon.  i think it's really my favorite part.  ok, looks like i've done it right so far, i have a perfect triangle without a single lump.  and now i tuck the blanket's excess edge back into my bundle.  how is it that there's this perfect little slot that fits just right the length of the blanket i need to tuck away?  keep it slow...if i speed up now, i'll just have to pull it out and start the tuck again.  i learn to pull and straighten kind of in one smooth motion, so the edges are sure to lay flat.  and now, to top it off, i place my hands, one on top of my triangle, one on the bottom, and i just kinda pat it.  pat it here, pat it there.  and then....well then, i'm off.  off to my next girlish adventure.  i know this thing is special, this cool folding thing that dad's taught me and my sister to do.  and every time i do it, i do it purposefully, carefully.  sometimes i feel impatient inside myself, because it's not like me to be slow doing anything.  but somehow, i know it's just the way it's done.  but now, i'm finished and i'm ready to run.  i never stop to ask dad why to be slow.  and why a perfectly smooth triangular bundle is so significant. 

now i know why.  because it becomes the most beautiful, precious gift the military knows to give the widow of a man who has has served his country well.  words cannot describe.  my eyes can only shed their tears.

and now i hear the tap of the shoes as the airmen turn and march out the door.  click, click, click, click.

and now the guns, saluting dad.  one.  two.  three. 

and now the trumpet begins.

i sing in my heart the words that closed every girl scout meeting i had as a child:

Day is done,

gone the sun,

From the hills,

from the lake,

From the skies.

All is well,

safely rest,

God is nigh.

and now, the celebration service begins.

*               *              *               *               *

whew.  if we could have all put the day on pause, we would have, each of us, right then and there.  and we would have gone home, kissed the ones we love, and thanked the good Lord for a day well done. 

perhaps that's what we'll do tonight.


all is well, safely rest.


love forever,
k.

hospice asks some really cool questions

the first morning after we placed dad in hospice, i woke up in a frantic place.  i knew i needed to get to dad fast.  once i saw him safe and secure at the ryan house, i figured i would be able to regroup and keep my already elevated level of panic from escalating out of control.  (remember the word i used to describe a daughter helping to take her father away from intervention settings and into hospice?  DAUNTING.)

so as soon as tim and i get in the room, i immediately feel better.  but not all the way better.  it's a lot, to force your body back into a calm, cool rhythm after waking up to those crazy anxiety sensations.  so i sit down, we say hey to dad.  he's able to vocalize, but he's not able to follow conversation clearly.  so i'm still feeling uneasy, not sure how to settle in. 

then i look at dad's bedside tray.  i discover one of many ways the ryan house tells their patients and their families that they care: the form they place on a bulletin board in every patient's room for all the staff to read.  i grab a pen, and get started.  it isn't long before i find my rhythm.  a gentle way to begin the process of re-visiting the things i love about this man who will soon be leaving me behind.

by the time i've come to the end of the page, i see him clearly again. he isn't just this sad, sad, suffering soul.  he isn't someone who has to be defined by his physical diminishment.  he isn't a head injury. or a dementia patient.  or, even, a fascinating medical mystery.  he is my dad.  a man who loves marie calendar pies and combs his hair to the side.  this is, i think, the moment when i realize my very sick father has this unstoppable, signature sparkle. all of a sudden it's something i deeply hope for: that his twinkly smile stays until the end.  it's been awhile since i've hoped for something so simple.

i soak up this crucial thing i'm doing here beside dad as the moments pass.  and my body begins to return to its normal place.  in trying to capture dad, line by line, for all the people who will give him love and care during the last days of his life, i begin the process of entrusting him, and us, to them.  and i begin to capture the countless images i have of my father, not just how he is right now, but for who he's always been.  it's one more step in this long, arduous goodbye. 

i wouldn't change a thing.

*          *          *          *           *

goodnight and please pray that the service tomorrow honors dad.  and that all who attend can capture some little piece of his life story, a piece that helps them pull a little more goodness out of life.

mary, vince, donna, sandi, karl, rob, gail, mike ... thanks for traveling so far. you love us so well!!!

xoxoxox always
k.


oh. one more thing.  he sparkled during his entire two week stay.

it's time to love on the brother

so tonight i find myself dubbing him the Death Expert.

hmmm, perhaps this is a complement for him, perhaps not so much.  but in my short time in his book  Awakening From Grief, i've found enough conversation starters to last us the rest of the week.  (not to mention that crazy book about dragons and princesses and holy grails -- oh and many thanks to mom rice, susan, karli, jb, and jen for meeting me in the castle, or was it the dungeon?  it was so nice to have your thoughts appear throughout the day!)

Since we went long last night, let's get right to the point today!

The guy's name is JOHN E. WELSONS.  For 25 years he has been counseling, teaching and lecturing about life's losses.  it seems he's trained with really smart people, one of whom is Dr. Elisabeth Kubler-Ross (whoever she is).  that's enough for me; i'm sold: Death Expert seems about right to me.

anyway, JB, brother jonathan bruce, this one's for you! i loved your honesty in your comment response the other day so i'll bring it in to start off the conversation:

I can definitely relate to the desire to make the grieving process sterile and speedy. During the past week or so, I have found myself "annoyed" with the fact that dad had to pass just a couple weeks into an insanely busy first semester of engineering school. I stare at a physics problem for too long and before I know it, my mind wanders back to the mountains of GA, with dad as a highlight in every scene. As I struggle with the inconveniences of life, I quickly feel sheepishness and like a total selfish jerk. Obviously, there were eternal timelines in place here and I need to embrace "grief's primative rawness" and let it work it's course. Sometimes life happens quickly, but most often, it takes place gradually over time - like a well aged wine or cheese.

That's good stuff brother!!!  well written (always) and oh so honest.  the honest places are where we can really roll up our sleeves and get some stuff figured out.  with a little help from Mr. Death Expert himself.  tim and i discovered this little passage over breakfast this morning, and man did it bring up interesting conversation between us!  hope it will for all of us here too:

 Our cultural conditioning has been to close our hearts when we experience "emotional overload".....when we close our hearts just when we most need them to be open, we stop the flow of love just when we need it the most.  And we don't even realize that we're doing it!

The result is that we become numb.  We feel as if just beneath the surface lies this terrifying, raging, monstrous beast of feelings that will devour and obliterate us if we so much as let one claw out of the cage.  We sit on our feelings like a gargoyle guarding the gates of hell.  We shove them down and shove them down because we're afraid they'll destroy and overwhelm us.  We're afraid there's no way out.

OK NOW HERE'S WHERE IT GETS GOOD

(ok well the gargoyles guarding those gates are pretty cool too)

the way out is the way through...to find the place in ourselves that watches the process like a impassive observer...to find that tiny little part of our awareness that sees everything we go through without judgement, sometimes with bemusement.  It's that part of us that sees our relief when a loved one has died after a long debilitating illness...the part of us that sees our guilt about feeling relief....the part that wants laugh just at the moment we are most angry. That's the part of our awareness with which we must become more familiar, which we must learn to trust.  That's the part of ourselves that can see it all without panic. 

So , bro...i feel your pain, whether its a sense of relief or annoyance.  what do you think of this guy's advice?   what would you say to yourself if you were an IMPASSIVE OBSERVER -- a type of neutral third party -- ready without judgement to give yourself some advice before your Dad Weekend begins? 

QUESTION for the GANG

(that's you, dear reader!!)

stepping outside yourself to become an IMPASSIVE OBSERVER is one way to work through grief.  have you ever tried it?  any other strategies you'd like to recommend?  personal stories welcome!!!  

_______________________________________________________

tomorrow mom's family arrives, auntie sandi and auntie donna.  quite excited for this!
xoxo k.

your story, or mine? ok, well, how about both?!

ok, so tonight's thoughts are a bit in the realm of the abstract.

sorry, that's what happens when i have two full days to do nothing but whatever strikes my fancy.  (never occurs to me to tackle a to-do list when i have an unscripted day before me.)

what i'm contemplating is the idea of a QUEST.  grab a comfy chair and kick up your feet.  this could take awhile.

*           *            *          *          *

yesterday i picked up this book entitled How to Read Literature Like a Professor.  i want to review it and perhaps give a copy as a christmas gift to my neighbor brien, who teaches junior high language arts. (i think of him as a type of professor, as he's a true connoisseur of classic literature. read his blog and see what i mean!)  as my ability to absorb intelligent literature is fairly limited -- perhaps i should give the book to him now and then for christmas, ask him to write me a summary of what the author is trying to say.

but, i'm all for giving it a go.  the first chapter is entitled "every trip is a quest (except when it's not)".  off and on all day, i've been chewing on what it has to say.  i find myself pausing at what i've read because i feel there's some hidden way to use this new information to add perspective to dad's passing.  i believe i may do this for awhile.

he's trying to teach his readers that many stories are built to be a QUEST TALE.  and that, structurally speaking, they all consist of the same basic things: a knight, a dangerous road, a Holy Grail, at least one dragon, one evil knight, one princess.  i get it, these grand old stories.  but then he asks me to contemplate the fact that these things are often metaphorical, cloaked in unfamiliar garb.  like: the knight can be a guy next door; a dangerous road, the path from his house to the corner Circle K; the Holy Grail, a loaf of Wonder Bread; the dragon, a 1968 muscle car.  and so on.  i'm stretching.  but i like the resulting intelligent feeling that comes over me as it starts to sink in. 

but then he kinda blows my mind.  and gets me thinking about my life with dad these past months.  he says (and i quote)

the real reason for a quest never involves the stated reason.  in fact, more often than not, the quester fails at the stated task.  so, why do they go and why do we care?  they go because of the stated task, mistakenly believing that it is their real mission.  we know, however, that their quest is educational.  they don't know enough about the only subject that really matters:  themselves.  The real reason for a quest is always self-knowledge. that's why questers are so often young, inexperienced, immature, sheltered.  forty-five year old men either have self-knowledge or they're never going to get it, while your average sixteen-to-seventeen-year-old kid is likely to have a long way to go in the self-knowledge department.

Whew.  ok i'm still trying to figure out exactly what a quest is, and how an old car can be a dragon.  but since professors usually know what they're talking about, i'm inclined to believe him.  if he says a quest is NOT about the stated reason, then it probably isn't. 

so where does that leave me with my dad?  it begins to dawn on me, slowly, today that

perhaps his journey through death
is not completely as it seems.

*           *            *          *          *

all of a sudden, i see myself as an average sixteen year old kid.  i'm at the ryan house, peeking my head out into the hallway anytime i see a gurney go by.  i'm an overgrown adolescent as i pass by dad's roommates' doorways, straining to see the various forms that "almost dead" can take.

*           *            *          *          *

someone along the way mentioned that dad gave to us even in his death.  i was a bit taken aback by that statement at the time, as the past months have seemed to be a lot about what i and my family have given to him.  perhaps in many ways, though, this idea holds more truth than i know.

take even just his extended presence in a home for the dying.  was it just for him to have the space and time, the luxury, to die in peace?  or was it, also, somehow, a bit about me?  did dad somehow know that his daughter needed to surround herself with death  in order to accept it with grace and joy? 

*           *            *          *          *

THE STORY WITHIN THE STORY

MAKES THE ONE I'M TELLING EVEN BETTER

six years ago i specifically chose to actively participate in my grandfather's end of life care (who by the way, is a man so like my father that i loved him dearly from day one).  i did this in part, yes, as a way to share my love and skills with him.  but, also i wanted to walk through this time with him.  i had this sense that i was ready to experience death, that i would come to peace with one of life's deepest strains.  to this end, i dove right in and started strong.  i thrived in the privilege of assisting him with all his daily needs: dressing, bathing, toileting, eating, and beyond. but, alas, this place of warmth and joy was not to last.  when it came time for grandpa to die, during his last two weeks on earth, i had to step aside.  my heart was literally breaking and i could take it no more.  just as i specifically chose to place myself in his everyday life, so i consciously chose to remove myself.  one day, coming to visit him at his hospice location, i looked into his eyes and no longer saw him there.  i knew immediately that this visit would be my last.  i knew i would not return to him until he was taken from me.  so much for the embracing of the death and dying process.  imagine my dismay to discover that not only was it was acutely painful and sad, but it was also totally and completely impossible for me to bear.  there was no way to create meaning, purpose, context.  i felt no growth, no maturing. just deep and unretractable sorrow.  the active pain lasted for many, many months, and i never gained that perspective that i had so innocently thought i could choose.

fastforward just six short years.  so what do i do, now that dad is in my mom's and my care, and clearly he is dying?  no one i love has died since grandpa.  so no new development here.  i just might be that 45 year old man who's never gonna get it.  but fortunately, i know this journey, this quest, is not about me, but only what i can do for dad.  as long as my heart and mind don't break, dad, i am there for you.  i'm here to help you finish strong and fully loved.

but as i look at myself now, wandering around and about the hallways of the ryan house, i wonder.  did dad, forever the giver, somehow make parts of his dying story all about me? 

the thought humbles me.  i want to reject the idea, even the very sound of it.  but as certain details run through my memory, i realize this could be the truth.  in living through dad's quest, with each and every gift he gives to me -- a conversation here, a sudden look of recognition and delight there, smiles, sparkles, tears -- gradually i change.  i begin to experience the closing out of life in an entirely new way. fitting. as it should be. timely. purposeful. beautiful. painful, yes, but very right. and wholesome, and good.  what a gift, this growth, this knowledge of all that death can be. 


all of a sudden, i'm no longer the kid who can't get enough of death.  or the old guy who can't soak up anything new.  perhaps i've simply shifted to a better version of the me i've always been. at least when it comes to the part about the dying.

*           *            *          *          *

ok, so i'm still not quite sure about where the princess and the evil knight come in.  or how it is that dragons can arrive on the scene dressed as a car.  but, true to form, i think the gifted professor would say that i'm on the right track. even if i'm not quite there.

*           *            *          *          *

if i'm going to keep writing i've got to share the floor a bit more than i have so far!  now that my pressing need to share the unfolding details of dad's story has passed along with him,  i'd love to become more of a conversation starter.  

with this in mind, yesterday i checked in with karli, our most free-spirited commenter to date (and boy do i love her for the way she shares her heart!).  she told me that she's been holding back, out of love for me and respect for my dad -- and thought that others may also be.  well dad and i are ready to take you on! 

so perhaps i'll do as my uncle mike suggests, and end every post with a question.  he says it will help you bring your own life experiences to the table.  so here goes:

QUESTION

(if i can enter this abstract world of really smart readers, so can you!)

can you conjure up any quick examples of other real-life things that fit some aspect of THE QUEST? 

dragons? 

dangerous roads? 

holy grails? 

something from your own life -- or something made up, from your fast-moving imagination?  i'd love to hear what can be learned on that creepy scary road, or while slaying that awful dragon.

thanks for giving of yourself.
xoxo k.