Rod Stewart did me in today.
I’ve been needing a good cry for awhile now, since I just haven’t been letting myself go to that place where I let my emotions loose. There have been teary times, a few of them. Like, for example, last week when I started writing about my family history. Even the rather detached recounting of my mother and aunt’s experience brought forth incredibly strong waves of emotion. The day that I posted that piece I went for a walk and as my mind turned over the events from their lives and the resulting associations to my own, the tears started coming, only to be shoved back inside.
(Funny, that as soon as that happened I made the decision to start writing in Other Blog again. Nothing like throwing yourself at detached political writing to not have to delve further into the family history stuff.)
Today, though, all my defenses broke down. I went to the memorial service for my neighbor, S., who died of ovarian cancer last week. She’s someone I was acquainted with both from the neighborhood and as a guide/mentor of sorts. We were not particularly close, but back when I had my first child, I joined a group of first time mothers that she facilitated. I had big trepidations about the whole support group thing, but I have to say that it did help me to get through a very difficult transitional time in my life. Nothing about being a mother was as I imagined it would be -- my boobs wouldn’t make enough milk, I had a colicky kid that I could never, ever put down even for a moment (she slept on my chest for the first three months of her life), and I was still trying to do grad school classes. I was completely on the edge, and S. helped me to be able to forgive myself, to go easier on myself and realize that nobody could be a better mother to my kid than I could. She once said that “the parenting road is long, but it is very wide.” I repeat that line to myself often, especially now in my current situation. The road is long, but wide, and there are many ways to be a good parent.
And this has what to do with Rod Stewart?
S’s memorial service was lovely, and packed with people -- probably close to 500 and standing room only. Her daughter and sister spoke, several friends, and then the officient (if that’s what you call the Buddhist woman running the show) read a piece that was written by S’s husband of 36 years, who didn’t feel that he could get through the reading himself. The piece ended with Rod Stewart’s words, read aloud as a poem, after which all 500 of us sat in silence to allow the sentiment to resonate through us:
You're in my heart, you're in my soul
You'll be my breath should i grow old
You are my lover, you're my best friend
You're in my soul
My love for you is immeasurable
My respect for you immense
You're ageless, timeless, lace and fineness
You're beauty and elegance
You're a rhapsody, a comedy
You're a symphony and a play
You're every love song ever written
All 500 sat in silence except for me, who picked that moment to have my good cry. Good and, in a hall of 500 silent people, loud. Still bawling as we were all filing out to the reception, several people that I didn’t even know came and put their arms around me, clearly interpreting my tears for grief. And grief it was, just not about S.’s death (though sadness for that was there as well). Sitting during the moment of silence, I knew that I would not be able to read such words about my husband with full conviction. I’d not be able to say you are my lover and my best friend. I wondered if there was ever a time that I could have said these words from my heart, or if all the couple’s counseling in the world would ever change that and so the flood gates opened and my grief spilled out all over the place.
I walked the long way home, slowly, until all the messiness subsided. When I arrived, my 4-year old boy ran at me, arms outstretched, full-on joy, and said, “Mama! Before you do anything else, give me a kiss!” And so I kissed him and held him close, breathing in his being, smelling his sweet skin and hair, as I also gave thanks for expansively wide roads -- 'cause it feels like I’m going to need them.
(And just in case you'd like to relive this song yourself: Go here.)
(Funny, that as soon as that happened I made the decision to start writing in Other Blog again. Nothing like throwing yourself at detached political writing to not have to delve further into the family history stuff.)
Today, though, all my defenses broke down. I went to the memorial service for my neighbor, S., who died of ovarian cancer last week. She’s someone I was acquainted with both from the neighborhood and as a guide/mentor of sorts. We were not particularly close, but back when I had my first child, I joined a group of first time mothers that she facilitated. I had big trepidations about the whole support group thing, but I have to say that it did help me to get through a very difficult transitional time in my life. Nothing about being a mother was as I imagined it would be -- my boobs wouldn’t make enough milk, I had a colicky kid that I could never, ever put down even for a moment (she slept on my chest for the first three months of her life), and I was still trying to do grad school classes. I was completely on the edge, and S. helped me to be able to forgive myself, to go easier on myself and realize that nobody could be a better mother to my kid than I could. She once said that “the parenting road is long, but it is very wide.” I repeat that line to myself often, especially now in my current situation. The road is long, but wide, and there are many ways to be a good parent.
And this has what to do with Rod Stewart?
S’s memorial service was lovely, and packed with people -- probably close to 500 and standing room only. Her daughter and sister spoke, several friends, and then the officient (if that’s what you call the Buddhist woman running the show) read a piece that was written by S’s husband of 36 years, who didn’t feel that he could get through the reading himself. The piece ended with Rod Stewart’s words, read aloud as a poem, after which all 500 of us sat in silence to allow the sentiment to resonate through us:
You're in my heart, you're in my soul
You'll be my breath should i grow old
You are my lover, you're my best friend
You're in my soul
My love for you is immeasurable
My respect for you immense
You're ageless, timeless, lace and fineness
You're beauty and elegance
You're a rhapsody, a comedy
You're a symphony and a play
You're every love song ever written
All 500 sat in silence except for me, who picked that moment to have my good cry. Good and, in a hall of 500 silent people, loud. Still bawling as we were all filing out to the reception, several people that I didn’t even know came and put their arms around me, clearly interpreting my tears for grief. And grief it was, just not about S.’s death (though sadness for that was there as well). Sitting during the moment of silence, I knew that I would not be able to read such words about my husband with full conviction. I’d not be able to say you are my lover and my best friend. I wondered if there was ever a time that I could have said these words from my heart, or if all the couple’s counseling in the world would ever change that and so the flood gates opened and my grief spilled out all over the place.
I walked the long way home, slowly, until all the messiness subsided. When I arrived, my 4-year old boy ran at me, arms outstretched, full-on joy, and said, “Mama! Before you do anything else, give me a kiss!” And so I kissed him and held him close, breathing in his being, smelling his sweet skin and hair, as I also gave thanks for expansively wide roads -- 'cause it feels like I’m going to need them.
(And just in case you'd like to relive this song yourself: Go here.)