A Life Well-Lived
Life is still good, as it has been good, and (I hope) will continue to be good. The universe keeps throwing random benevolent things at me when I least expect them, for reasons that defy my understanding as yet, and I keep feeling quiet amazement that the world is such a strange and strangely beautiful place.
I'll write more about some of those things soon. I have a mountain of picspam to share, too, much of it of the silly, shiny, peacocky variety, so stay tuned.
But coming out of this weekend, I find myself feeling a bit more subdued than usual, so forgive me if I'm not quite my bouncy and sunshiney self. This was probably to be expected from a weekend that included a wake, a funeral, and the 10-year anniversary of 9/11, but I am dense about some things, and my own emotions took me by surprise a bit. (So much so that it took me forever and a day to finish writing this post, which I started yesterday. *g*)
The wake and funeral were for my dear great-aunt, Auntie D, who was not as old as the term "great-aunt" would imply, but who had suffered a lot, and for quite a long time. She did not have good fortune in health--if something was going to have a complication, there was a good chance she'd experience it--and I'm not going to catalogue all her difficulties here. Because although there were many setbacks and indignities for her, she never let them define her, or change her, which I find tremendously inspiring. She wasn't a Pollyanna, but she was never bitter, never complained, never presented herself as a collection of sufferings. Complications would be dealt with as they came, and she wasn't going to dwell on them or howl about her fate. She learned how to live in the moment, and she did it beautifully.
The way she defined herself, instead, was this: she was Auntie D, and she was generous of both spirit and material things. She loved parties--especially throwing parties for other people--and she always had a smile for everybody, including strangers. She loved her family, and she loved making them happy. She always looked for the good in people, and if you knew her at all, you'd know that she forever reminded her children and grandchildren and nieces and nephews that there was a different way to love everybody, if you were just patient enough to look for it and forgiving of imperfections and failings (other people's and yours). She started and ran her own temp agency, because she liked helping people, especially those who needed second chances, and liked helping them feel competent and successful and worthwhile. She knew her husband since they were both children, convinced her own parents to give him a home when his parents threw him out as a teenager, and encouraged him through both military service and a college education. (He became an engineer.) They were married for 53 years. He's going to miss her terribly.
Above all, she was a Sunshine Person. She liked sunshine. She radiated it into the lives of others. She didn't take things or people for granted. It's only now that she's gone that I appreciate how much there is of her in my own temperament, or at least the person I hope to someday be. I can't imagine a better role model than Auntie D.
She continued to impress me with her approach to her own death, in which she simply decided that she'd had enough, and she knew she was fighting a losing battle. She decided to cease her dialysis treatments and went into home hospice care, so that she could be home and surrounded by the people she loved. She cut back her meds to only those that helped the pain and eliminated those that made her feel fuzzy and not herself. She had a pizza party with her nieces and nephews. She ate her favorite cake, which her sister brought her specially. She watched movies she enjoyed with her husband. Essentially, she filled the last days of her life with joy and pleasure and family and reminders of why life was good.
I hope to someday be even a fraction as cool and brave and wise as her.
Because of her decisions, that made her death unsurprising, although still very sad. And there were plenty of tears at the wake and funeral mass. As if in sympathy, it absolutely poured rain endlessly, ceaselessly, noisily, from the start of the wake until just before the funeral mass the next day. Streets flooded. None of us got any sleep.
And yet. By the time the funeral mass had ended, the sun had started to shine. By the time we got to the cemetery, it was an unquestionably beautiful day, all brilliant blue skies and bright sunshine, so that we all had to wear sunglasses. (Mine are massive and have rhinestones. I think she would have liked them.) We sent her off in a spray of pink carnations (her favorite flower) and left the ghostly imprints of our hands on her casket, reflecting back the love and fondness she always showed to us--something to take with her as she goes where we can't follow.
It ended with a good party and good food, which I know she would have wanted. Because she had always wanted to tour Italy with her husband and never got the chance because her illnesses limited her mobility, he arranged to have the luncheon at a very wonderful and atmospheric Italian restaurant. The food was divine, the service impeccable, the wine flowed freely, and many good memories were shared. I got an opportunity to visit and catch up with lots of relatives, kept my godchildren occupied and entertained for some time, and also got a chance for a good, long, laughter-filled talk with one of my very favorite cousins, Mike, who is a massive, warm-hearted, charismatic, hockey-playing bear of a man. We've just always clicked with each other. We're both extroverts who love telling stories and making people laugh (Gemini and Sagittarius--no wonder), and we have the kind of relationship where we can comfortably take the piss out of one another as a sign of deep affection.
An example from the day of the funeral, to which I wore a black and white ascot:
MIKE: ~smirks at me~ Nice tie, Lady Gaga!
ME: ~smiles sweetly~ Thanks!
MIKE: I didn't mean that as a compliment, you know. It was sarcasm.
ME: ~smirks back~ I know. But considering your fashion sense... trust me, that's a compliment. I mean, you're wearing tweed.
And then we both laughed and hugged each other tightly and a little tearfully, because we both loved Auntie D very much and we're going to miss her.
So it was an emotionally draining time, and yet in the end, it was also a fitting tribute. A miserable day got turned into a rather beautiful one, which is the sort of thing that Auntie D specialized in. She made the most of her time, and she's reminded me to make the most of mine, and to be mindful of what I put into the lives of others.
But needless to say, I was a bit raw and out of sorts and uncharacteristically moody that night, which was not the ideal emotional state to be in for the 9/11 anniversary that was coming.
I won't say much more about that day ten years ago, other than that my memories are still intense and indelible, yet fragmented, like shards of brightly-colored glass, and not something I want to examine in public. I didn't know what to write about it then, I still don't know what to write about it now, and I suspect that I never will. I woke with an intense blinder of a headache Sunday, watched a few minutes of the archival footage on television, felt like vomiting, and turned it off. When my headache eased, I decided to devote the day to the same things I try to bring into every day: beauty, joy, creativity, love, kindness, life. I feel like these things--a focus on the life well-lived and well-appreciated--are at least as worthy a memorial as solemn ceremonies and statues. As I was reminded that day, joy and beauty are their own sort of powerful tribute. (I thought that was the wisest thing said all day, and will keep that sentiment in my heart.) It felt especially appropriate, in light of Auntie D's memory.
So I spent the day doing things I love, in a life I love. I talked to the people I love. I watched the Lions and cheered them on, and I was even rewarded with a rare victory to savor this time. I read beautiful words. I cooked good food (a not-quite-a-gratin of roasted butternut squash and roasted garlic, with spinach, white beans, chicken sausage, and multigrain pasta), and I put in the prep work so that I could simply slice the dough and make Raspberry-Coconut-Pecan Swirls. (I put them in the oven last night, and they smelled heavenly. The admins in our department are well-fed.) I hugged my cats.
It did not feel like a wasted day.
I feel like Auntie D would have wholeheartedly approved. I should live more days with her seal of approval, I think. And if that isn't a beautiful legacy to leave, I don't know what is.
I'll write more about some of those things soon. I have a mountain of picspam to share, too, much of it of the silly, shiny, peacocky variety, so stay tuned.
But coming out of this weekend, I find myself feeling a bit more subdued than usual, so forgive me if I'm not quite my bouncy and sunshiney self. This was probably to be expected from a weekend that included a wake, a funeral, and the 10-year anniversary of 9/11, but I am dense about some things, and my own emotions took me by surprise a bit. (So much so that it took me forever and a day to finish writing this post, which I started yesterday. *g*)
The wake and funeral were for my dear great-aunt, Auntie D, who was not as old as the term "great-aunt" would imply, but who had suffered a lot, and for quite a long time. She did not have good fortune in health--if something was going to have a complication, there was a good chance she'd experience it--and I'm not going to catalogue all her difficulties here. Because although there were many setbacks and indignities for her, she never let them define her, or change her, which I find tremendously inspiring. She wasn't a Pollyanna, but she was never bitter, never complained, never presented herself as a collection of sufferings. Complications would be dealt with as they came, and she wasn't going to dwell on them or howl about her fate. She learned how to live in the moment, and she did it beautifully.
The way she defined herself, instead, was this: she was Auntie D, and she was generous of both spirit and material things. She loved parties--especially throwing parties for other people--and she always had a smile for everybody, including strangers. She loved her family, and she loved making them happy. She always looked for the good in people, and if you knew her at all, you'd know that she forever reminded her children and grandchildren and nieces and nephews that there was a different way to love everybody, if you were just patient enough to look for it and forgiving of imperfections and failings (other people's and yours). She started and ran her own temp agency, because she liked helping people, especially those who needed second chances, and liked helping them feel competent and successful and worthwhile. She knew her husband since they were both children, convinced her own parents to give him a home when his parents threw him out as a teenager, and encouraged him through both military service and a college education. (He became an engineer.) They were married for 53 years. He's going to miss her terribly.
Above all, she was a Sunshine Person. She liked sunshine. She radiated it into the lives of others. She didn't take things or people for granted. It's only now that she's gone that I appreciate how much there is of her in my own temperament, or at least the person I hope to someday be. I can't imagine a better role model than Auntie D.
She continued to impress me with her approach to her own death, in which she simply decided that she'd had enough, and she knew she was fighting a losing battle. She decided to cease her dialysis treatments and went into home hospice care, so that she could be home and surrounded by the people she loved. She cut back her meds to only those that helped the pain and eliminated those that made her feel fuzzy and not herself. She had a pizza party with her nieces and nephews. She ate her favorite cake, which her sister brought her specially. She watched movies she enjoyed with her husband. Essentially, she filled the last days of her life with joy and pleasure and family and reminders of why life was good.
I hope to someday be even a fraction as cool and brave and wise as her.
Because of her decisions, that made her death unsurprising, although still very sad. And there were plenty of tears at the wake and funeral mass. As if in sympathy, it absolutely poured rain endlessly, ceaselessly, noisily, from the start of the wake until just before the funeral mass the next day. Streets flooded. None of us got any sleep.
And yet. By the time the funeral mass had ended, the sun had started to shine. By the time we got to the cemetery, it was an unquestionably beautiful day, all brilliant blue skies and bright sunshine, so that we all had to wear sunglasses. (Mine are massive and have rhinestones. I think she would have liked them.) We sent her off in a spray of pink carnations (her favorite flower) and left the ghostly imprints of our hands on her casket, reflecting back the love and fondness she always showed to us--something to take with her as she goes where we can't follow.
It ended with a good party and good food, which I know she would have wanted. Because she had always wanted to tour Italy with her husband and never got the chance because her illnesses limited her mobility, he arranged to have the luncheon at a very wonderful and atmospheric Italian restaurant. The food was divine, the service impeccable, the wine flowed freely, and many good memories were shared. I got an opportunity to visit and catch up with lots of relatives, kept my godchildren occupied and entertained for some time, and also got a chance for a good, long, laughter-filled talk with one of my very favorite cousins, Mike, who is a massive, warm-hearted, charismatic, hockey-playing bear of a man. We've just always clicked with each other. We're both extroverts who love telling stories and making people laugh (Gemini and Sagittarius--no wonder), and we have the kind of relationship where we can comfortably take the piss out of one another as a sign of deep affection.
An example from the day of the funeral, to which I wore a black and white ascot:
MIKE: ~smirks at me~ Nice tie, Lady Gaga!
ME: ~smiles sweetly~ Thanks!
MIKE: I didn't mean that as a compliment, you know. It was sarcasm.
ME: ~smirks back~ I know. But considering your fashion sense... trust me, that's a compliment. I mean, you're wearing tweed.
And then we both laughed and hugged each other tightly and a little tearfully, because we both loved Auntie D very much and we're going to miss her.
So it was an emotionally draining time, and yet in the end, it was also a fitting tribute. A miserable day got turned into a rather beautiful one, which is the sort of thing that Auntie D specialized in. She made the most of her time, and she's reminded me to make the most of mine, and to be mindful of what I put into the lives of others.
But needless to say, I was a bit raw and out of sorts and uncharacteristically moody that night, which was not the ideal emotional state to be in for the 9/11 anniversary that was coming.
I won't say much more about that day ten years ago, other than that my memories are still intense and indelible, yet fragmented, like shards of brightly-colored glass, and not something I want to examine in public. I didn't know what to write about it then, I still don't know what to write about it now, and I suspect that I never will. I woke with an intense blinder of a headache Sunday, watched a few minutes of the archival footage on television, felt like vomiting, and turned it off. When my headache eased, I decided to devote the day to the same things I try to bring into every day: beauty, joy, creativity, love, kindness, life. I feel like these things--a focus on the life well-lived and well-appreciated--are at least as worthy a memorial as solemn ceremonies and statues. As I was reminded that day, joy and beauty are their own sort of powerful tribute. (I thought that was the wisest thing said all day, and will keep that sentiment in my heart.) It felt especially appropriate, in light of Auntie D's memory.
So I spent the day doing things I love, in a life I love. I talked to the people I love. I watched the Lions and cheered them on, and I was even rewarded with a rare victory to savor this time. I read beautiful words. I cooked good food (a not-quite-a-gratin of roasted butternut squash and roasted garlic, with spinach, white beans, chicken sausage, and multigrain pasta), and I put in the prep work so that I could simply slice the dough and make Raspberry-Coconut-Pecan Swirls. (I put them in the oven last night, and they smelled heavenly. The admins in our department are well-fed.) I hugged my cats.
It did not feel like a wasted day.
I feel like Auntie D would have wholeheartedly approved. I should live more days with her seal of approval, I think. And if that isn't a beautiful legacy to leave, I don't know what is.