So thousands of miles from home, I began this phase of my pilgrimage, May, 2001, of naming, processing, releasing, and coming to heightened sense of consciousness about the powers and principalities, and the demons, that unbeknownst to my waking self, were unraveling my serenity. I began to focus on the first line of the Twenty-Third Psalm, stressing a different word each time I said it through: THE Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want; The LORD is my shepherd, I shall not want; The Lord IS my shepherd, I shall not want, and so forth. I repeated over and over the words of the serenity prayer daily. Sometimes, all I could do was moan: an intense, resonant wailing sound would rumble from the deepest core of my being. Other times I called prayer partners, dear spiritual friends who prayed with me, who let me weep and talk incessantly. Sometimes I would meditate. Sometimes I worked out, did power walking and jogging. One gift of this journey was the efforts of my poetic muse that “came on line,” and allowed for a great outpouring of anger, grief, betrayal, and loss.
Sometimes the words would flow while I was journaling. Sometimes it happened when I was on the stationary bike at the YMCA, or right after a session on the tread mill or during aerobics. After beginning Bikram Yoga, the practice that involves 26 Hatha Yoga positions twice through for ninety minutes in a room heated at 100+ degrees, I could no longer deny the feelings that would emerge. During these intense meditative postures, the issues that bubbled within me would surface. My body was no longer willing to hold on to such turmoil. Waves of nausea or tears or feelings of deep sadness announced my inner reality of emotional turbulence: feelings and realities tucked away and denied, so that I could move through life, and help others. I had been aware of some of this, but much of this melody of angst had been an unsung song in muted silence. I needed to face the facts that some days I didn’t have it all together, and clearly there were parts of my life over which I had no control. Who was I kidding? I know that most days I am totally powerless over people, places, and things. On some plane, I had known this a while back, and, paradoxically, in acknowledging my powerlessness, I actually gained tremendous freedom and power. This lesson had been tucked away, however, so I wasn’t experiencing a lot of freedom or sense of empowerment. I was torn, worn, and tired. I began to keep a legal yellow note pad with me for the purposes of transcribing the words that exploded within my mind, body, and spirit. Other times, I’d grab the back of an envelope. Over the course of a few years, about seventy poems on rage and grief were born. When I felt this volume culminating, over a decade had passed, and there were over 150 poems. My issues with my parents’ death and infertility were the initial catalysts for some of the poems. These poems helped birth the themes that ruminate throughout this meditations.
There were mornings when I realized that I was angry at several things – too many to name. The realization exhausted me. Those were times when the only thing I could do would be to tell God all of my troubles; the God who promised in Deuteronomy 4 to never, ever forsake me. Since sometimes these revelations happened really early in the mornings, I waited until a descent hour to find a conscious, human ear to listen; to be with me in my misery. The earlier thoughts, revelations, and subsequent confession were so important. Sometimes I would pray and cry out to God, and sometimes because I was so restless, I didn’t pause to listen for God’s response. Sometimes I did remember that prayer is a dialogue and not a monologue, and it would be so comforting to sense God’s presence and hear God’s response.
Some mornings, I would wake up and it would be so beautiful, that I would get dressed quickly. I walked and ran the hills as I purged the grotesqueness of this thing, this anger and grief that literally, figuratively, and actually weighed on me and weighted me down. This thing, this angst and sorrow, this ire and woe, this rage and heartache made me feel ancient. During some moments, it would cause an incapacitating affect that thwarted my passion, the fires of joy, hope, and love.
Over time, I realized that I was so angry at God and Mother and Dad, that God let them die, and that they died. One of the reasons I felt such a deep loss, in part was that we were in the process of trying to adopt a child or children. I became so aware of their needs and that if we were blessed with little ones, they would not have any grandparents. The absence of that generation in our lives really heightened my awareness around the loss I felt with my parents’ absence, and how critical grandparents are to nurturing children, and loving them well. In life, it is amazing how we reach out for others. In reaching out for someone else’s children, they would become ours. Sometimes in the process I wondered if in reaching out to someone else’s children, were we asking for more heartache? Our children would never ever know their grandparents on my side of the family, or my husband’s2 side. All are dead. And yes, they live within our hearts and we have pictures, and I know they are all praying for us; otherwise, we could have not been kept safe as long. I know they are in me and I in them, but they are still dead. I know Daddy’s body was tired; he had fought so nobly for so long, but he still is not here. I was angry; he died only six months after Mike and I got married. He and my husband would have been such good friends. Clearly, I am so grateful for having him through adulthood, but I missed him so. I felt sad. I had friends, longtime friends, who were blessed to still have both parents alive. I have other friends who have one parent alive. And of course, I have other friends who for all intents and purposes are orphans. We may have a few aunts and uncles around (of my maternal uncle and aunt, and thirteen paternal aunts and uncles, only one uncle survives), but our parents, those who birthed and raised us are dead. I don’t envy anyone else their wonderful blessings of parents; I grieved the loss of my own.
I still have no clue as to why God let Mother die at the young age of 62. She had so many hopes and dreams. Mother had never been sick; I can’t remember her ever having a cold. The doctor diagnosed her with leukemia in May and she died in October, 1989. She had looked forward to retirement; she believed, as did we all, for her healing. She could have come to visit or live with us, and had so many new and wonderful experiences. Our friends would have embraced Mother. She never got to hold our kids; and of course, now there are no kids for her to hold. Oh the sadness and loss around this one was, is so incredibly deep. There was so much she did not get to do. There are many things I can now not share with her.
I don’t deny she had a wonderful life, but the ending pain was so huge. She had lost so much by the end. She didn’t smoke or drink. She was a faithful and wonderful Mother and a friend. She prayed for us, and like Dad, she loved us. Her death makes no sense to me. I know the one constant in life is that if you are born, you will die; but her death was so sudden. There are times when I feel such a loss that I cannot call her up and tell her to plan to visit. She didn’t get to hold my nephew for long, or sing to him, or tell him stories about other members of our family. Seems selfish? I don’t think so —- it hurts, such a deep loss. Mother, Dad, did you give up? Did your bodies give up? Did God call you and you knew not to fight anymore?
I am angry with God and with Grannie that she had Alzheimer’s. What a waste, waste, waste. My beloved Grannie disappeared, and this woman left in the shell of her body was listless, fitful, no sense of humor. They tell me she could cuss like a sailor. I am deeply grateful I never witnessed any of these episodes. The contrast in the before and after is a nightmare in hysterics. She was a neat, clean, proud, yet humble woman. She loved people at church. She loved to take care of the flowers and made some of the communion linens for church. She spent hours at the church. For years, her home was the sanctuary for ministers of Reeves Temple. They knew they could find quiet and a meal at Bec’s house. Thursdays at Grannie’s were such an experience in collaboration and learning to pull one’s weight. Among maternal extended family, we learned to set the table, and sit and eat with cousins, and how to clear a table, and how to restore a room to a previous order. One neat rite of passage was that when you began high school you could then sit at the “big table.” At the big table, you got to serve yourself, listen to grown folks conversation, and participate as well. I miss that Grannie. She died in her 97th year, having had Alzheimer’s for about ten years or so. The grace is that she lived long enough to see her grandchildren grown, and she shared lots of years with us, loving us, teaching us, and guiding us. She