grief

OUT OF THE OCEAN

You visited me, finally, and I am grateful. I have missed you and there you were, out of the blue, the literal blue of the ocean. Have you been waiting for me to appear in the calm openness necessary, like you ever needed permission. But maybe it was me that needed the permission, the sense of peace I have worked on to get to the place where I could be open to your visit.

It was like you had never left, but at the same time like you had been gone forever. Forever. Soon you will be gone for more than half of my life. Those are the frames of reference I use to recognize your long absence from my heart.

The first time I knew you were ok was the first dream, the one where we were at the beach walking parallel to the shore and I was behind you, you kept falling because your leg was bothering you and I kept throwing sand on you which was causing you pain. Then in that fast forward way a dream propels to the next scene, I was sitting cross legged facing the waves. You were the wave lying in a resting pose on your right ear eyes closed, serene even, mouth slightly curved up but not quite a smile letting me know you were at peace, you were good. That dream has carried me for twenty four years.

Twenty four years later, I find myself in the midst of a deep dive down within myself eager and excited to find ways to simmer down and re-connect with my soul. I began a short meditation practice. Every morning while the coffee perks, 8 minutes or more depending on the size of the pot, I sit cross legged in silence facing the East like a religious Jew at the Western Wall, (my cousin beth corrected my compass as I thought it was west) and since I wake up at the crack of dawn facing east is probably more realistic , though I do enjoy the sunset and west feels right for some higher power reason I am unsure of and I sit and breathe in total silence. No music, no sound machines, nothing except me and my breath and the beat of my heart. My mind races and speeds and slows and floats then I remember where I am and like the magic that meditation is slowly one day at a time teaching me, I breathe. For the last thirty or forty days, just showing up to the mat wherever I am and I breathe. Calmly and collectively. Each day I go beyond the beep of the coffee pot’s sound and I find myself staying put- different.

When I first started I kept saying, is that coffee pot ever going to fucking beep? Now I am disappointed that it beeps so quickly and I am surprised that in such a short time span I went from waiting and tapping my foot like my skin was crawling to this miraculous pleasure. And I sit and breathe massaging my insides with the deepest and and calmest of breaths. Steady, In and out. Slow, easy. Connected. This is the miracle of the quiet. And wisdom moves inside of me and I come to my knees without ever moving.

Then just like the miracle of not trying, not forcing, there you were, there we were. At the beach, I was next to you as part of the same wave gently lapping at the shore, in and out like my own breath. I opened my eyes and felt you. Even though the visit was brief, I relished it because it had been so long. I accepted its shortness and went about my day. To the mat again the next day and in only two or three breaths you were back, but this time you stood up facing me looking like your pre-cancer, pre-death self, strong, muscular, tall, dark wavy hair and I was sitting facing the water watching you arrive, like a male character from a Greek myth, someone likely related to Zeus, I stood up knowing that you wouldn’t be staying, but just bathing in the moment. We danced and frolicked like brothers and sisters do and danced again. Then you turned around and walked back in the water, with your back to me and dove in, swimming away, never turning around and it was enough.

I opened my eyes knowing you were letting me know something but instead of trying to figure it out, just allowing the pleasure. I went to a yoga class that night with one of my favorite teachers, Mary and she did mini meditations throughout the gentle class. At the last part of the meditation, after the final Shavasana, Mary had us sit in that familiar cross legged position that is getting much easier to do. Within a flash of time you were back, but this time with Dad. You looked at me, Dad didn’t, though this didn’t bother me and the two of you uncharacteristically wrestled briefly. Shortly after you both dove back in the water swimming underneath and away. My eyes filled up with tears, happy to see you to be with you in this odd awakened state, you left me with the words Call Mom.

Typical. I felt a sense of urgency to call her. But I didn’t right away. That was Monday. I called her yesterday but had to cut it short because my friend arrived earlier then planned as we were headed to dinner with 2 other friends. One of them pushed the very familiar Ann buttons, but I didn’t react, like it was a test drive of a car before you decide to make the purchase. So I called my mother back today and allowed her to do her thing, keeping a safe distance from her fishing pole to my heart. And it was good.

People die. They die young. They die old but they die. Mary Oliver died today, someone who was a link for me to Provincetown and another old friend who is no longer.. Strange how people can physically leave, but you can still have visits from them even 24 years later just like it was yesterday. Relationships die too and people can depart emotionally and you feel nothing, like it was time for the departure and they did you a favor without you even knowing you needed one. Then there is Ann who comes and goes and comes again, like the nine lives of a cat. And I allow it because after all she is my mother and who knows how many more lives she has. This time, though I watch her line and hook fly past me. I watch a fish grab a hold and swim with the current full steam ahead not realizing who’s on the other side of the worm.

I haven’t had the dream again since Monday and I welcome the visit juxtaposed with my son, being away in Israel and on his way home too. Like you are part of this protection in his travels. Your presence makes his trip help me feel safe for some reason as I try not to feel like you and Dad are sending me some message or you are coming for me or something like some fucked up death premonition. There has been and is so much cancer and death in my young life. It is a struggle to not immediately go there because it has been so long since I have felt you, my dear brother. You are a warrior, Poseidon, all these years later and I hope (and pray too) it was just a lovely visit because you miss me too.