Monday, March 11, 2013

And So We Begin Again

Dear friends, it would seem that life has happened between my last few posts and now. The boyfriend of 2011 is now my husband of almost a year. My under-employed depression was dispelled by Luby's originally, and is now kept at bay by my high school English teaching position that I absolutely love. I am well. No, I'm so much more than well! My fairy tale has begun, and I am truly, completely happy. Life isn't perfect, but it's pretty darn close, and I can't ask for much more than that.

I was looking through some old papers this evening and came across a piece that I wrote in college. I would like to share it with you. This was written on April 30th, 2007, just past my 20th birthday in a reading response journal for my survey of British literature class.

Death. How near and dear a subject to my heart. I often think about the ironies of death, and the oddest occurrences that seem to happen simply because someone dies. For instance, why do families only get together when someone they love dies? Why do we feel the need to make our connection with the living stronger in the absence of the dead? How is it that we find solace in someone else's grief? Being a close and personal friend of death, I still cannot know these answers. I know, however, that everyone I have lost has lived a life with a title.

The past ten months have been trying times. Then again, so have the past ten years. I have no remaining "blood" grandparents as of April 18th, 2007. No, do not pity me. My greatest loss will have been a year gone in June. It all began in 1998, when my mother's mother died. She ran the family, and was the stronghold. She was my personal model, and I still strive to take her place in the family in small ways. Her title was mother, grandmother, friend, aunt, sister, daughter, pillar, stronghold, cook, housewife, cancer survivor, cancer victim. Hr husband died in September 2003. He was father, grandfather, help-mate, friend, brother, uncle, worker, brave, honest, crazy, sick, old, sad case in a hospital. Odd coincidences are associated with death. Granny died seven days before my eleventh birthday. Granddaddy died seven days before my brother's eighteenth birthday. Subtract my age from his and you have seven. Odd observations of the scattered mind, you might say. There are no such observations on the next two deaths. Mema, my father's mother died in June of 2006. She was  personal confidant, friend, grandmother, mother, sister, aunt, shoulder to lean on, love of a lifetime, cancer patient, Wal-Mart employee, former smoker, cancer victim, the girl in Grandpa's little red wagon. Her first husband--the father of her three children--died this month. He was brother, father, uncle, grandfather, friend, singer, smiling face, changed man, freak death on Wednesday night. Recovery is a slows process, and the opportunity for meditation on death has come at a very appropriate time.

Losing a parent is difficult, but losing a child is more so. Time heals wounds and broken hearts, but the heart never forgets a lost love. The pain of a memory can be stronger than the pain from a physical wound. Forgive, but do not forget. Live every day for all it is worth, like it's your last, as if you we're dying. Love with all of your heart. Dance like nobody's watching. Sing with your whole heart. Laugh with your whole self. Hold nothing back. Take nothing that isn't yours. Give yourself to everyone you meet. Make friends and keep them. Death comes on swift wings, unannounced, unwelcome, and unforgiving. Have no regrets. You may not have tomorrow. Do not live a life untitled. Know who you are, where you stand, from whence you've come, and where you're going, even if it's nowhere. Have a purpose. Have desires. Have fun. Live. Death offers no pardons for those who have neglected the title of their life. What's your title?

I got a check plus on this. The comments read, "Pam, this is a beautiful meditation--thoughtful and eloquent." I cried when I read it today.

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