Reaching for Eudaimonia

I wished I would've been able to tell myself that when Death came again it was going to hurt less. But it didn't. Sometimes I think having such a huge loss at a young age changed my perspective on life to being more hopeful. My earliest experience with Death labeled him as an intruder. Death had hurt me deep down into the core of my being... now he was back. We lost my great-grandmother, Birdie Faye Brown, earlier this month and at first it didn't sink in how much this woman had meant to the family. A few of us had some rough patches with her, you see. But she was still the reason I had a little bit of red in my hair.  It happened almost 4 years after you had died, Howard. This was a fact that kept circulating in the kitchen at Grandma's. We couldn't believe it. We kept on saying it as if it were supposed to make sense. But of course it didn't. Right before the funeral I drove with Angel to Kansas so she could coach some little girls that were on a soc

I finally started writing the book about you. Is it strange that it took me back to the beginning of this entire blog? It felt just like the first time I pressed the "publish" button on the introduction post. Perhaps it is because it is a new introduction into this side of me? It's strange to be here, recounting all of this again. First question that pops into my head that my mentor would ask: Does it hurt less? I think my answer would be yes and no. It does hurt less because I've finally began the journey into turning my memories and experiences of you into a book and it will probably feel a lot smoother to write. It doesn't hurt any less because I still have to recount it. It still feels like pressing on a bruise or stepping on a sticker. But it's a change in perspective. I've been told not to put on the editor hat, because I've always been a writer to reread after I finish a chapter. I've been told to just write it out, to write f

These muggy summers have me missing the fresh air of springtime. I miss the budding lilies in your resting place where the softest moss grows in place of tragedy. Sometimes I run out there through the twigs leaving snags in my shirts and my hands feeling their way through brush. I know I get small cuts on my knuckles but it's worth it to talk to you. I miss those days when the house would be quiet enough to hear the hum of the geothermal system you managed to experiment with. You would curse under your breath when you found that the basement had flooded (yet again). I would chuckle silently hearing you come up the stairs in a huff. If you were here I'd ask you if it was alright that I had made all these mistakes in your absence. I would ask you what it is I'm supposed to be looking for. I would ask you for help. Mom called this my love letter to my father. I suppose it is, really. I made my peace long ago not to discuss my pain in full detail with people. I neve

I can breathe again after months of claustrophobic memories ruling my sleep. They're finally gone. I am still me, but I'm different somehow. Wiser, perhaps. Maybe a little more safeguarded. When I let myself be fragile to people who didn't mind hurting me, I had opened myself up for a battle of thorns. I was growing a black rose garden in my chest, but I've somehow managed to paint them back to red again with forgiveness, watering them with acceptance. I'm searching instead for kindness and understanding. I think I've seen it too, in a pair of deep brown eyes. Fresh starts. It's funny how you never see them coming. Written 6.3.17

Dear Dad, Today I turned 19. It was the first time in 10 years that you weren't there for my birthday. Remember when we used to always pick a restaurant to go to that no one in the family had heard of so they were forced to try something new? I remember how you used to laugh so secretly. I thought it was such a diabolical plan. Today feels weird without you here. My favorite part about my birthday became sharing it with you when I was 8 years old. I would always memorize what day yours would be on before mine because I knew that whatever week of the day yours fell on, mine would be exactly one week later. One thing I missed when I woke up today was one of your signature cat birthday cards. I loved how year after year you would go and find the craziest looking cat card and write something quite clever on the inside. I always looked forward to your quips and you always looked forward to my reaction (which was usually faked annoyance). Secretly we both loved it. So now

I know what it feels like to fly. It feels like being held by your arms and being swung around in circles as we are both getting dizzy and giggling like crazy. It feels like I'm six years old again in the backyard at Grandma's house. Caleb is playing baseball outside with our cousins John, Angel and the twins, Tim and James. My hair is bleached by the sun a bright yellow blonde in messy pigtails and my skin is all tanned. Our fort that we built out of the cardboard boxes that the new couches came in is set up with a sign that says "Home Sweet Home, Wecome" instead of "Home Sweet Home, Welcome." "Again, Howie, again!" I laugh and scream with my arms stretched out towards you. You smile back and grab my arms to swing me in circles more and before I know it my legs are off the ground and I'm flying again. I can tell you love Momma and she loves you back. You are growing on me and I'm growing on you too. I can tell you make Momm

These last four years have been just awful for my personal life. I have felt loss after loss, picking myself up slowly just to be hit again. I've felt each sharp stab and ache from the tearing and healing of my heart. With every new betrayal or loss I've felt like I've been auctioning off my parts.  "You want my heart?"  Take it, it's a wreck anyway.  "Do I hear an offer for my lungs?" That's fine, you can have them. I already feel like I'm drowning by making you comfortable with your ideas about love.  "Any bidders for my arms and legs?"  Take them if you must. I've grown used to comforting myself in silence and remaining in one place.  *** The year after Howard died we saw who our true friends were. Some people felt very uncomfortable around us. We could feel it even though they never said a word. It's almost incredible how dull you feel after loss but how sometimes you have this hei

One of my earliest memories of Howard was when I was around 5 or 6 when he was dating Mom. I was waiting up for her to come home, but I was really excited to see him too. I had on one of those pink nightgowns with one of the Disney princesses on the front. My hair was a chaotic mess of curls and tangles, partially because I hated to brush it and partially because Mom always brushed it for me before I went to bed.  Grandma had the fan whirling around in the kitchen at a medium speed, occasionally clicking when it rocked because a screw was loose somewhere.  I sat in Grandma's chair at the table, leaning back and watching out the window for headlights. My eyes felt itchy and dry and all I wanted to do was shut them for just a moment. I knew I couldn't though. I had to wait for Mom to get home.  I looked around the room, noticing the pictures of fruit all over the walls. Small ones, big ones, with the addition of fake fruit stuffed into wooden baskets for decoratio

It has been a while since I wanted to talk to you. I have been having a lot going on recently and have felt overwhelmed by all these changes. I suppose I've gotten used to changes again. But I admit that I have been one to hold on a little too tightly to things, especially when there isn't much to be done. To be honest I don't really know how I am feeling as of late. It comes in waves. I am happy then sad, then stressed, then elated, then somber, then exhausted. The cycle of this has been on repeat the last couple of weeks. I haven't been writing to you lately. This makes me sad. It isn't that there isn't anything I wish to say or anything. I've just been consumed. Consumed has always been an interesting word, especially as an excuse. But I suppose that is what this hesitant hello is... an excuse to tell you everything you've missed. I accomplished a goal, Howard. I've met a goal that I didn't know I could accomplish. But now I'm le

"I can't ever escape Jane Austen," He would say in exasperation. There we would be, Mom and I, on the couch with popcorn in our hands and tissues on the table. We were (yet again) watching the BBC versions of the Jane Austen novels. We'd smile hesitantly, almost guilty, for watching Pride and Prejudice for the third weekend in a row. Mom and I basically had the lines down for some of the scenes and were not ashamed to practice them in public, laughing and smiling uncontrollably. "Howard, we cannot help it if Colin Firth is perfection," I would say to him. He'd lift one of his thick grey and black brows and cross his arms. "How is this productive?" He'd say. "You're the one who bought these DVDs!" I'd say back. Mom would laugh at our bantering. And of course Howard would just mumble something under his breath and make a break for it to escape the English romantics. I always thought that was a little odd since h

Running with him was as much a part of me as my bones or my heart. The day he died my heartbeat seemed to slow to a melody I didn't recognize. I kept trying to find the tempo, the exact moment my inner conductor decided to signal a molto ritardando.  I couldn't do it.  I was too slow to rewind myself backward. I was stuck in slow motion, moving from room to room with dragged feet and crumpled shirts. My body forgot what it felt like to hit the ground hard and confident, pushing against it to move forward.    I was used to my heartbeat being synchronized to his when we would race towards the finish line. Now that he was gone, who was I going to run next to? The couch became my coffin for a year. My eyes were constantly in motion, shifting from the television to our old cat that would stare out the window, wondering when he was going to come in from outside. I would have to tell her to come away. I would try to shelter her under the blankets and hold her tight, but sh

Photo I took of Howard during the 2010 snowstorm. The storm came in quick and covered the forest in a thick blanket of snow. It shrouded the house and weighed down the branches. It went up past our ankles when we marched through it. Howard took out his camera to get some pictures of the house and the trails. We stopped periodically to make snow angels or have a snowball fight.  The rainy blizzard stuck to the silver hairs on his beard making him look like a snow giant. Mom's purple hat was slowly collecting snowflakes too. Both of their cheeks were stained pink. When we laughed our exhales were visible. "Mom, kiss Howard in the snow," I said. I took my own camera and began snapping as many photos as I possibly could. When it snowed over five inches the house ended up looking like something in a postcard or a wintery wonderland.  Photo I took of Momma and Howard during the 2010 snowstorm. Sometimes when we walked through the forest we would hear

Many people who I have shared this blog page with are aware that I am in a class for blogging. They usually ask me why I decided to take on such a personal topic for a class. My answer to this ranges from "Yeah, I guess it is kind of crazy" or "My advisors made me do it." The latter is obviously meant as a joke, but they really did have an influence in my decision.  In reality I didn't know at the beginning what I would learn from writing about all of this. I didn't know what it would feel like to share such personal details of my life with friends and strangers.  The overall feeling I have about posting is relief.  I went back to the start of this whole blog decision and I looked at some of my earliest posts. It is there that I see the hesitation in my writing, which I eventually ended up writing about (Thanks, Mom).  I think everyone could tell that I was very unsure at the beginning. I think they knew that I had become accustomed to keeping this p

Grief will find and affect us all one way or another.   For me, the inevitability of that statement was disturbingly profound.  Researching grief and coping mechanisms felt like wading through a pool of murky water. I first started out looking for blogs like mine that talked about a specific loss. Most of the blogs I found I couldn’t relate to because a lot of them were about spouses or people who lost their parents later in life. I then moved on to watching Ted Talks to see what some of their speakers were saying about grief.  I even searched the self-help section of Barnes and Noble for information.  What I did find got me meditating on an assumption that grief can be very reliant on culture. Thus begging the question: If culture really is a independent factor, how are we supposed to grieve? When I started researching grief I found there were some cultures out there that, in a way, celebrated the end of life—one with jazz music. An article on the Ted Talk by Kel

Dear Dad, I trusted someone. I really trusted someone and they broke it.  “You’re only broken if you choose to be,” You said to me after my first heartache. “I know, I know,” I say to you out loud in the heavy darkness of the guestroom. I can’t sleep in my room. I can’t spend more than two minutes in there. “Get out of your head. Stop replaying that part. Stop thinking about it. You didn’t do anything wrong. Don’t let this break you,” You say. But it has. “What if I can’t do it on my own?” I ask you.   No reply. They come over, one after the other, in the afternoon when the sun is setting just below the treetops. The living room is painted pink by the sunset. That used to make me smile. They tell me they can’t see beyond the wall I’ve put up. They say when they search my eyes for recognition they can see I’m inhabiting some other world. I remember this world. I remember it too well. Their arms are like anchors around my body trying to pull me