wouldst thou join me on the dance floor?
My father looked through me as he died. His coffee-brown eyes blazed with an amber-like illumination. They glowed. His black pupils were the size of peppercorns and appeared to be suspended in the petrified grasp of ancient sap. My sister and I turned to the nurse and insisted, strongly, those were not our dad’s normal, everyday eyes. It was desperately important—to me—she understood the forces at work in that room at that moment…read more
I thought I understood grief but I don’t.
I’ve grieved for miscarried babies and all four of my grandparents. I sobbed and I screamed. I was incredulous and surprised. I sank into sad music. Mundane annoyances became personal affronts. I was wounded. I was broken. When my dad died, I expected all these elements of grief to invade, but on a more acutely intense level. My father is gone, forever. I will never hug him hello and goodbye again. I will never again hear him sing to me on my birthday. He will never visit my home for a weekend. I won’t have to explain to him, again, how the remote works or how to override the coffee maker’s timer if he gets up before it switches on…read more
As my dad died, I had violent fantasies about severely beating the next person I saw with a cigarette hanging out of his or her mouth. I told my husband I was going to kick them in the throat. He thought that was an uncharacteristically mean thing for me to contemplate. I couldn’t help it, though. My dream of pummeling smoking strangers was most likely a way I dealt with my anger toward my father and his precious cigarettes, which were responsible for his Stage IV lung cancer…read more
He walked through grocery stores and I followed him. I was his ride, the driver of his getaway car. He wore a black leather jacket a few sizes too large so he could load an astonishing array of items inside. He managed to slide apples, bags of chocolate, packs of meat, and medications into the coat. They rode nestled next to his back and under his arms. The first time he revealed his talent for stealing, I nearly vomited as he hustled me out of the store. I was alarmed, disgusted, appalled. I drove away from the store as he laughed and proudly pulled each item out, waving them in my face. Could I believe it? It was too easy…read more
Pilgrims had to pack light. There is no such thing as a pilgrimage that takes you one block down and two to the right. That is called walking to the corner store to buy a gallon of milk. It might take one song pounded through earbuds to get there and another home.
A true pilgrimage demands sacrifices of time and distance, of comfort, of familiarity. The journey is just as important as the destination. There are mercies and hardships. There is movement. There is rest. There is camaraderie. The pilgrim prepares before embarking by considering what must be packed and what can be left behind. Some of these decisions are simple and obvious: A pilgrim will need water and nutrient-dense food. A pilgrim will not need a 5-pound sack of sugar-free gummy bears…read more