“I could complain a little right here about the long years of back pain and occasional awful, heartbreak, but Lord, those were infinitesimal against the slather of gifts You gave mere me, a muddle of a man.” -Brian Doyle
Henry, three, sent Chip a birthday video message from Juneau. He said he hoped “Poppy” got a punching bag with treats that fall out, a costume, balloons and cupcakes. I love you, he said. Happy birthday. He was picking his nose, but not too much. Henry’s grandfather was smitten.
We had a quiet birthday. (The family is coming Sunday. A school night is too much.) It’s hard to top Chip’s pre-birthday weekend in Washington where he ran a marathon with our daughter JJ in a Boston Marathon qualifying time (3:51). The next day, they watched the Seahawks game from seats down on the fifty-yard line. Guns & Roses played the national anthem. There were fireworks and a military jet flyover. All for his big day. (At least that’s what we told him.)
While he was in Seattle, I went to the three-day death retreat in Haines.
This morning, walking the dogs on the beach with Beth, we ran into a friend and her whippy pup. She asked what we had been up to. I said, Death. Beth snorted, “We died a couple of times this weekend.” In theory, in guided meditations. In thoughts and at least more specific than usual details– like what playlist do you want in your death room?
I will be lucky to die old, in my own bed and still be able to hear the piano or recognize anyone in the room. But still, it doesn’t hurt to hope.
She praised us for talking about death, since most people avoid it. We explained that we aren’t saints and that we both had moments of snarky thoughts– and yet, I feel buoyant. Lighter, even. It’s good to say the scary things out loud.
I am a different person today than I was last Friday, I said. Me too, Beth said.
Celebrating Chip’s birthday on 9/11 can be weird. It’s an anniversary of such immense loss. We’ve lost a lot since then. Remember the shared grief? How close we all felt to New Yorkers, to each other? Remember?
I told our friend (and another daughter while we did yoga together earlier in the week) about the practice of full and empty cups. On the first day of the retreat, we were instructed to turn our teacup over when it was empty. Think of it as a death rehearsal, the leader said. My tea, the time it took to drink, the thoughts, the feelings –are gone. Forever. Dead. Later, after lunch when I turned it upright and refilled the empty cup with life, it felt like an answered prayer.
I really love mornings with Chip doing his stretches on the rug, the dogs going in and out and in and out—me in my windowseat, trying to pray or read poetry, the phone call from my mother-in-law in Florida. She forgets the time change—but don’t worry, we’re up. This morning was even better—because today I made a moment of turning my favorite mug upright, filling it slowly with hot coffee, adding cream— and I looked out the window at the last wet pansies in the window boxes, the fall clouds blowing up the inlet, at the Happy Birthday banner I forgot to take down– and thought: I’ll keep it up a little while longer — Happy Birthday dear life. I love you.
