Muchness and Light

Now here I stand, one grain of sand inside this crazy life.

So today's the big day: 40. 

The first thing you should know is that I don't care about turning forty.  I'm not scared of it.  So please don't bother to lament my youth or future aging. 

When I turned thirty, everyone called me, encouraging me to freak out about it.  What was there to freak out about?  It's natural.  Everyone who lives past that certain point passes the milestone as they move toward the next one. 

Thirty was the age I didn't have to pretend to care what other people thought anymore.

Forty is the age I can afford not to pretend to care what other people think. 

I am who I am, and so much of that is because of the crazy and amazing experiences I've had since the hot summer day when I launched out of my mom, all six pounds and six ounces of me determined to get going, a month early. 

Good, bad, crazy, and boring—there have been a lot of laughs and tears and breathless giggles and blank stares of utter, incomprehensible disdain.  More of that than not has been spent with my BFFs, with the girlies who turned into women, right along with me.  This weekend I was blessed with the ability to go to my hometown of Birmingham and see these women, to spend the weekend with them while we ate and drank and cackled boisterously at each other, causing a raucous public scene.  (Turns out people are very forgiving of your obnoxious laughter when you're wearing a pink glittery hat and carrying a glowstick wand.)

There were moments when we were all sixteen again, giggling about some boy or some twenty-year-old memory.  But now we are wives and mothers and teachers and friends in ways we could never have imagined in our brash youth.  We are grown, and we are women who can own our lives, whether or not anyone else likes it. 

But being a grown-up doesn't mean we have to stop being who we are deep down.  There's no reason to suppress the essence of Me, just because society thinks we should act our age.  And that's just it—I will act my age, as I think it applies to me and regardless of what that means to anyone else. 

As we said all night for Pretty Pretty Princess Night, "Fuck 40!"

Thank you to everyone who has helped me to get here.  Thank you to everyone I've ever met or known, who took a moment to impact my life and my path, even if I didn't know or like how it was happening.  I wouldn't be in this place, in this Me, without your having touched me in some way. 

Now go find yourself a yummy delicious cupcake and make a wish—for you, for me, for world peace.  Whatever you choose, wish for it in your heart like you were a little kid again, and never, ever let go of how that feels.

And there has always been laughing, crying, birth, and dying.

My father-in-law died this week after a horrible, lengthy battle with Alzheimer's.  Yes, it's a blessing in a way, but it's still hard when someone you love dies, no matter what.

He was a sweet, kind man.  He was quiet and gentle but with a booming voice that seemed like it should've come from a radio announcer in the 1940s.  He lived a life peppered with remarkable, noteworthy tasks and accomplishments.  He was married for 41 years.  He had two children, plus two step-children, and six grandchildren.  He will be missed.  He was 84. 

DH's mom is 15 years younger than her husband, and my parents are both in their late 50's.  This is the first loss of a parent for either of us, which means it's also the first loss of a grandparent for my children. 

My younger son doesn't remember a time when Paw-paw wasn't sick and bed-ridden.  Thankfully, he has memories of his seeming lucid and smiling.  My older son does vividly remember his grandfather when he was healthy.  He remembers trips to the zoo and playing in the car with his grandparents, who would spend hours letting him pretend to drive. 

DH had time over the weekend to talk with the boys about what was coming, about how he was thankful to have had time to emotionally prepare himself for this loss, as best he could.  I think it was beneficial for the boys to get that talk with Dad.

When I told them last week that Paw-paw was gravely ill, they were sad and teary.  It had been coming for days, and we wanted them to be aware of what was happening.  When the morning came that I had to break the final news to them, they took it completely in stride.

It wasn't that they weren't saddened by the news.  DH and I had prepared them as best we could for what was coming, and I guess we did our job.  I'm sure there will be more tears in the time surrounding the funeral, but for now the boys are continuing on with their daily, summer boyhood.

My older son asked, though, "Why do people always say 'passed away' or 'gone on'?  Why can't they just say people died?  They die."

He's absolutely right.  We've been gentle in our sharing of information with the boys, letting them lead with questions and thoughts, trying not to overwhelm them with details.  There was no need for sugar-coating or euphemism with them.  They understand the cycle of life part as completely as they can at their young ages.

My son also asked why people get so sad when someone dies.  "If you believe in God and Heaven, then you believe you'll see them again one day.  If you don't, it's just what happens in life, and it happens to everyone.  What's there to be sad about?"

This is when I see that he doesn't have the life experience or emotional IQ to understand yet that grief is about the griever, not the deceased.  It's about the complication of memory and emotion and neurotransmitters, about the process of dealing with loss.  In some ways, I'm really thankful that the boys have made it this far into their burgeoning lives without knowing these things.  Grief is hard enough to process as an adult; I can't imagine what it would've been like to deal with it as a child, no matter how intelligent or mature I (or they) may have been.

What I do know is that DH and I will help them get through this, and vice versa.  The bond we have with our children is deep and strong.  They are relying on us to set the emotional tone for the next few days and weeks.  Knowing our sons are emotionally safe and secure within those bounds to be able to handle this loss will be reassuring.  And if any of us falters, there will be hand-holding and hugs—and a lot of love—to help us get through.

 

Pardon me if a tear falls among my Christmas cheer.

The last few days in Atlanta have been rainy and stormy and generally nasty.  I went out last night to see Wesley Cook with Angie Aparo at Smith's Olde Bar, with my friend Kristi.  I quickly found myself soaked and ankle-deep in a torrential flash flood.  This morning dawned beautiful; lingering dark clouds were being pushed away by stunning sunshine, when I ran out to get a last-minute Christmas gift. 

On my way home, I was stopped by a funeral procession.

I started to cry.

I have no idea who died.  It wasn't someone I know.  I don't know if they were young or old, healthy or ill.  But there were about thirty cars in the procession, inching their way through a major intersection, flanked by police motorcycles.

Someone is going to be sorely missed this holiday season.

It started me thinking about the people I miss, the ones who aren't with me for Christmas—friends and family alike.  My paternal grandfather tops that list.  He died in March of 2006, and I miss him every single day. 

He was an amazing man, simple and sweet and funny and loving and caring.  He and my grandmother were married for more than 50 years.  They had four wonderful children, seven granddaughters, and two great-grandsons.  My elder son remembers him quite clearly, by my younger was just over a year old when we lost Paw-paw Red. 

He was a Jack-of-all-trades—a welder and an electrician and a fur trapper.  He was also a magician in his youth, and the family was regularly treated to slight-of-hand and funny tricks.  One of my favorite pictures ever is of him eating fire in a tuxedo, as part of his show.  Many of us granddaughters had magic shows by Paw-paw for our birthday parties, and it was always phenomenal fun. 

What I remember most is the twinkle in his blue eyes.  He was always full of good-natured mischief, with a slick wit and quick smile.  He would give anyone anything that he ever thought they needed.  I always knew I'd gotten my flashing Irish temper from him (note the "Quinn" in Stephanie Quinn Jackson).  At his funeral, I also realized where I'd gotten my long thumbs. 

More importantly, what I got from my grandfather was a shining example of how to love the people who matter.  Even though he worked hard, long hours, he was always there with a hug and a smile when we needed it.  He was interested and encouraging and concerned.  He and my grandmother raised the most functional family I've ever personally known.  There were about 300 people at his wake and funeral.  Four different men told me that my grandfather was their best friend.  That is a testament to a life well-lived. 

DH and the boys and I are staying in Atlanta for Christmas this year, for the first time since we moved here.  It will be very strange not to be at my grandmother's house with the huge extended family, and I will miss them very much.  But I know my grandfather would want us to do what's right for our family.  I know he'll be there, and here, with us in spirit. 

And I know each and every one of the Quinn clan will miss him in their own way.  I won't be the only one smiling through bittersweet tears when we think of him. 

I hope the family I saw today finds some comfort in their own cherished memories.  I hope they are able to find some solace in what will undoubtedly be a difficult time.  If you have someone that you're missing this holiday season, I hope your fondest and sweetest memories of them will ease your dismay and help to settle your heart. 

Life is a precious, finite commodity, and we should all take every opportunity to tell everyone we love that we love them and why we love them, to tell them that they matter to us.  Find the people who matter to you, no matter how near or far, and take a moment to tell them that you love them.  If they're far away, a heartfelt phone call or email will matter more than you may know.  If they're close by, pull them closer and don't let go, ever, no matter what. 

Thank you—all of you—for the time you take to read my blog or chime in on my Facebook page.  It matters, a lot, to me that you're there and giving me encouragement when I need it.  I hope you have a wonderful and beautiful holiday with your own friends and family.  I hope you find love and joy, in your heart and others'.

Merry Christmas!

 

And everyone’s singing like everything’s fine.

I had this really strange experience today, and I wanted to share. 

I left for a while to clear my head and get in some cardio on this gorgeous day in the South.  I went to the park, plugged in my iPod and hit shuffle.  I did my time, was a little more together, and headed for  home.  

I turned onto a suburban street very close to mine, just a couple of blocks from my house.  Beautiful, warm day.  Brilliant blue sky and bright sun.  My windows were down, and I was listening to the Gracious Few.  (For those of you who would care to know, "All I Hear" had just come on as I turned the corner.)

A house on the left side of the street, just a few houses down the two-tenths-of-a-mile-long street, had lots of cars parked outside.  Hanging from the eaves of the small front porch was a blue and white banner, proclaiming that someone was having a boy.  "Baby shower," I thought.  "How sweet!"

Four or five more houses down the street, same side, there was a house with multi-colored balloons on the mailbox.  I could see decorations at the back of the house.  It looked like someone was having a birthday party.

Almost to the end of that street lives a family whose youngest daughter likes to play with my youngest son.  They're a funny little duo when they're together, and they haven't had a play date in a while.  Her father, unfortunately, is battling yet another recurrence of pancreatic cancer.  He's in his mid-40's.  It's a crazy roughness in that house right now, that I can't really imagine.

Three houses down from their house, sits the next to the last house on the street.  It's at the end of the cul-de-sac.  There were several cars parked outside it, as well.  At that house, there have been lots of visitors all week.  In fact, on Wednesday, I noticed a bunch of cars parked in the street near that house.  The next day, I was behind a hearse driving through our suburban neighborhood, straight to that family's driveway.  There's been a constant stream of traffic, relatively speaking, on the end of that street for the last few days.  Today was no exception.

As I drove the last block-and-a-half toward home, I was struck by how there was a strange lifecycle being represented by those four homes, on their porches and mailboxes and at their curbs.  These things all happen every single day, good or bad, but I was blown away by how they were all happening at the same time in such open proximity to each other.

I don't have to delve into the Cycle of Lifeness of it all.  My readers are smart enough to read between those thick black lines.  It was the snapshot of that moment that took my breath away.  Each of these families, in incredibly close nearness, were each a different facet of the same, shining gem.  It was stunning and heartbreaking and beautiful, and it was a glimpse at life that was gone as soon as I turned the corner to go in my own direction. 

So I went home and got the family, and we celebrated my oldest son's birthday.  We were surrounded by hundreds of others this afternoon, who may or may not have been marking their own milestones.  I'll never know.  But the anonymity of their moments, or mine, doesn't make them any less poignant.  We're all shining facets sometime.