Leaves

I have been thinking about death this week.

It started on Tuesday, when the boys and I were walking to All Saints' Day Mass at the Newman Center.  We were talking about the Catholic churches in China, one state-sanctioned and one faithful to Rome, and about why communist ideology and Christian theology often conflict, and about Marx and "the opiate of the masses." 

I thought about writing a post called "Opiate Schmopiate" after that conversation -- we talked about what opiates do, how they blunt sensation and addict their users.  I told the boys about Mark Shea's wonderful recent post -- about how holiness, instead of straitening and stripping away, allows us to be who we truly are and relish life in all its richness and luster.  We celebrate the saints' lives because they show us a promise fulfilled:  I come that you may have life, and have it abundantly.

Or maybe it started before that, when we found an injured squirrel on the sidewalk.  He lay at the base of a tree, a broken branch nearby.  I called animal control from the ice cream shop, but when we walked by the next day he was still there, eyes closed.  "I don't want the squirrel to be dead!" Joe burst out.  "Can you make him be alive again?"

I always think about dying in the fall -- don't you?  It's the leaves, with their tumult of color against black boles and boughs.  I remember St. Francis' prayer as I scuff through them:  "It is in dying that we are born to eternal life."  Mostly I repeat the first part, IT is in DY-ING, over and over.  The dactyl-spondee rhythm is good for walking, and as I walk I pray for a peaceful death, in God's time.

Friday I went to our little homeschool co-op and found a friend in tears.  Her mother had been diagnosed with terminal cancer in August and they were waiting for the end. 

It came that night.

Saturday morning I was talking with some other friends about it and I said I felt a little pang of envy for my friend.  And then I felt like a tactless toad for the rest of the time we were all together, because who would envy someone facing the death of her mother?

But here's the thing:  when I die, I hope it's something like that.  I hope I have some notice but not too much.  I hope I can say goodbye to the people I love.  I hope they hold my hands in the last days.  I hope my pain is managed well.  I hope my kids pray the rosary at my bedside and call the priest to administer last rites.

Also, and maybe this part is toadly, I envy my friend her relationship with her mother.  I love my mother fiercely -- I called her up as soon as I came home on Friday to say "wear your seatbelt! eat your vegetables!" -- but I wish our relationship were a little easier.  I have this inner certainty that I am not what my mother wishes I were:  not pretty enough, not polished enough, too intense, too sensitive.  Oh, ugh, I just had to take a five-minute break from typing so I could put my head on my desk and weep. (sniffle, snuffle)  I am afraid my mother is going to die and I will never have been sure that she was proud I was her daughter. 

Okay, moving on.  In a minute.  [insert sound of grip being gotten]

Yesterday a song for my friend came burbling up out of me.  The chorus came together quickly but I was stuck on the verses until I found this poem via Anne Lamott.  The last couplet -- "and here, in dust and dirt, O here / the lilies of his love appear" -- speaks to me so clearly that I am borrowing it in two different verses.

"In dust and dirt," Vaughan says, and I think about bodies, fashioned from dust and returning to dust.  I think about love undying, taking root in a temporary home, and I think especially about motherhood -- a body created from dust brings forth another body created from dust, and a loving heart teaches another heart to love.  The temporal and the eternal, spliced together for a time. 

My friend's mother was an artist; she taught her daughter to draw and now her daughter is teaching my sons and their friends.  Beauty, I think, is one of "the lilies of his love," and I believe the gift God planted in her will continue to bring forth beauty even now that she is dead.

"In dust and dirt" also reminds me that there is loveliness in the muck.  In the most difficult patches of my life as a Christian, grace has been most abundant.  In the moments when I have faced down my worst fears, God has poured out strength and love on me.  Do you remember the scene in Voyage of the Dawn Treader when they are sailing away from the terrible dark island, and the albatross whispers to Lucy, "Courage, dear heart"?

I have heard that voice in the darkness.  So why am I afraid?

I have been thinking about my own death.  I have a lump in my left breast and I have been avoiding making an appointment to have it checked out.  (I have been lactating for nine solid years, people -- shouldn't tumor cells commit apoptosis at the mere mention of my name?  I have also been thinking ruefully that the last time I had a benign condition diagnosed, the result was a $4000 bill.  But I'll make the call.  Soon.)  I have to tell you, because I am being nakeder than usual in this post, that I am imagining the worst, planning my funeral as the tiny sad violins swell to a crescendo. 

I am thinking about my children's deaths.  Elwood and I were talking about lead last night; we have just learned that we have a few areas of lead paint to deal with and I am kicking myself for not testing before it got too cold to paint outside.  He said, "You know it's not the lead that's the worst hazard, right?  The worst hazard is going to be something we haven't thought of."  And I started to cry, wishing for a world in which forethought and good intentions could be enough to keep my children safe.

Joe, when he heard about my friend's mother, began to sob.  "I don't want their grandma to be dead," he declared.  "Can we get them a new grandma?"  I hugged him, and told him no, and wished that painful truths didn't have to intrude quite so soon.

The leaves are covering the ground now, scarlet leaves from our walnut tree, tiny golden leaves from the locust trees.  When we moved here at the end of winter all the trees were bare.  I have been thinking today about the leaves unfurling in the spring, feeding the trees and shading the people in the summer, dying in a riot of color in the fall.  I have been thinking about my own life, and praying, Oh, God, let me provide nourishment and shade in a world that needs food and shelter.  Let me grow in beauty as I age.  Let me live a life I can lay down unafraid and unashamed. 

Comments

[mary]

Beautiful post, Jamie. It really made me think, about a lot of things.

NOW GO MAKE THAT PHONE CALL. I mean it.

[Tracy]

Do we have the same mother? I've been thinking a lot on the topic of mother-daughter relationships, mostly in the hope of figuring out what I can do differently with my own daughter, but also in the hope that I can find peace with my own mother. I like this line "I love my mother fiercely" because that is exactly how I feel with my own mother, but there is so much going on that I wonder... and wish... and oh, well.

Make the phone call, Jamie. Though I understand why you haven't made it yet - just do it. Please.

[Renee]

You have taken hazey, unformed thoughts, fears, and anxieties and put them so beautifully into words. And I envy your ability to cry about these fearful realities. If I could cry, I think I would get some relief. Here is one of my favorite petitions from our Divine Liturgy-

"That the end of our life may be Christian, painless, unashamed, and peaceful, and for a good defense before the awesome judgment seat of Christ, let us ask the Lord"

"Grant this, O Lord

Actually, here is another, equally favorite petition-

"We pray for mercy, life, peace, health, salvation, protection, forgiveness and remission of sins for the the servants of God"

"Lord have mercy"

Blessings to you!

[Sarah]

Thank you for the post. It was well-written. I had a number of thoughts as I read through your words.

I think your mom thinks more of you than your realize. As parents, I think we all have hopes and expectations for what our children will be like and for the choices that they will make. We have our dreams as we carry them and as we raise them. But even when they are different than what we thought we wanted from our children, it doesn't mean we aren't delighted with the people they have become. I'm sure you surpass your mother's expecations in many, many ways. In many ways you may be a mystery to her, but I'm sure she thinks you are a marvel.

[Carmen]

That was a sad, yet beautiful post.

Pick up the phone, Jamie. I'll be right there with you. Remember when I was worried about the mole on my breast? Probably not, since I was too frightened to blog about it. It's all over, though.

I'll be in prayer for you and your family.

[alicia]

i third that 'pick up the phone and call' about the breast lump. I recommend an Ultrasound as a first screening. Mammography of lactating breasts is tough technically.
and thanks for verbalizing the feelings that so many of us have and can't express.

[Nicole]

Of course I can't know whether you're right about how your mother feels, but I've been reading your blog for awhile and although I only know you in the partial and tangential way this medium makes possible, I admire you so much and get such pleasure and food for thought from reading your musings, that I have to tell you . . . but trying to put it into words makes it sound trivial and almost condescending, which isn't at all what I mean. It just seems to me that any mother would be--should be--overwhelmingly proud to have you as a daughter, and for the very reasons you cite as potentially off-putting (intense, sensitive). Anyway. Thanks for blogging.

[Moxie]

If I ever have a daughter I hope she will be like you. Especially the intense and senstive part.

Sunday was the Faure Requiem in church, and I can never get past the In Paradisum part. The music fits the words so perfectly.

May the angels lead you into paradise: May the Martyrs welcome you upon your arrival, and lead you into the holy city of Jerusalem. May a choir of angels welcome you, and, with poor Lazarus of old, may you have eternal rest.

Yeah.

[Elena]

Oh Jamie, your post really struck a nerve. I've been thinking a lot about death recently too. Thanks for sharing it.