Embrace the Snowy Day

The other day was filled with warmth and sunshine, a rare day in January, but I couldn't embrace it. I was filled with grief and couldn't enjoy the day. Today, however, is a different story. I'm still sad, still miss my sister, but the grief has receded for the moment.

I know I'm in the minority, but I was delighted when I looked outside my window this morning and saw our car covered with a light covering of snow. Of course it helps that I don't have to drive anywhere; maybe my outlook would be different if I had to clear off the car and use it.

I considered going out to lunch with Mr. B. but after thinking about it for another minute I decided lunch inside my own house sounded better. Besides, we've been invited to The Manor (aka my mother's house) for potato soup (do you know, I always want to add an e to the end of "potato", thank goodness for spell check), so we'll be walking over there in the snow later this evening. I don't want to go empty-handed, so I shall bake some cookies for dessert (another near-misspelling -- I had "desert" instead of "dessert" at first; at least this time I caught the mistake myself). Today is a good day for chocolate chip cookies and potato (oops, there's that e again) soup, not necessarily in that order.

Let the snow fly where it may; it won't stop me. I am embracing this day.

Can't Embrace the Day

I don't know why today is such a hard day for me. It's beautiful outside, sunny and unusually warm, but I can't embrace the day. I'm crying for no specific reason, just the overall sadness of knowing that I can't stop people from dying and that one day, someday, people I love will no longer be a part of this world. I can't bear the thought of it but I know I have no choice. How do we go on this way?

I know that having an end to things makes us value them, I get that. But why does it have to be such an abrupt end? Why can't there be more of a transition from this place to the next one? And why can't there be some certainty given to us that there is something that comes after this?

I know I'm supposed to have faith in the after life and I do believe there is something after this, but what I'd really like is for there to be proof of it. For instance, I wish that my sister, Kathy, who died a few weeks ago, would send us a sign and tell us all is well with her, that she's out there somewhere in the cosmos reunited with my father, who died in 1996. For that matter why couldn't Dad have done the same for us when he died? Why does there have to be this impenetrable wall between our world and the next one?

Life is sad today, that's the bottom line. I miss my sister. She looked beautiful on Christmas day but I never told her that. Too much hustle and bustle that day, too many other people milling around, and she left before I got the chance or made the time to talk to her. I want that day back. I want it back so badly. I just want the chance to embrace her, tell her I love her, and say goodbye. Maybe that's why I can't embrace this day -- because I can't embrace her.

I know this day will pass and my tears will dry but right now they are flowing and nothing I can think of seems to stem the tide. I picture Kathy laughing and I cry knowing that I'll never hear her laughter again. I know my grief pales in comparison to my mother's, who has lost her child, or my sister's children, who have lost their mother, or my sister's husband, who has lost his wife. But I've lost a sister; our flock is smaller now and it's hard to carry on without her.

My Youngest Child

Aislinn is my youngest child and she's the one I consider the most joyful (after she's had her morning cup of coffee). She's an enchanting young woman who charms just about everyone in her path.

She was the only one of my three children who was colicky, and she and her dad bonded when he held her as she cried in anguish until her stomach calmed down and they'd both fall asleep -- him sitting up with her lying in his lap. Lucky for all of us her colic resolved after the first 3 months and from then on she was a happy child, except on road trips to and from Bucyrus, Oh to visit my sister.

"I'm thirsty, I'm thirsty, I'm thirsty," she'd say, her thirst increasing ten-fold with every whine. Or we might hear the alternative song "I'm hungry, I'm hungry, I'm hungry." Either way, she was tireless in her pursuit of water or food. But once her thirst and hunger were satisfied, back came the sunshiny girl we all loved.

Now that she's grown Aislinn keeps most of her complaints to herself, but don't try to talk to her before she's had her morning coffee -- you'll be rewarded with a glower, not a giggle, and you'll be sorry. Give her a chance to consume some caffiene and then the enchantress known as Aislinn will reappear, ready to charm the world.

My Oldest Child

Katie is my oldest child, a recent law school graduate with a penchant for interior design and a deep capacity for love. Katie lived as an only child for the first five years of her life, an experience that shaped her in ways both good and bad. She has to work hard sometimes to not expect the world to revolve around her. She is generous and loyal, loving and true.

Katie's face is often a mask and some might think of her as standoffish but in reality she wears that mask to protect herself from rejection. Her smile hints at a heart that's been broken more than once but beats strong and steady, open to finding love based on brushes with something close to it but not quite true.

My wish for her is that she loosen the hold on her heart a bit and learn to enjoy the world and her days in it without spending so much time longing for love. My hope is that she will find true love soon and that her days will be filled with laughter and happiness instead of loneliness and tears.

My Middle Child

I just got off the phone with John, my middle child, a manchild of 21 who called to tell me he starts his secondary education student teaching this week.

"I'm petrified," he said.

I never taught secondary school, but I taught elementary school for one year a long, long time ago, so I know he's right to be petrified.

"You should be," I said.

I believe he's up to the challenge and I tell him that, too. I hope he believes me.

John is my most empathetic child; he cried when watching A Muppet Christmas Tale and one of the muppets was thrown into a snowbank. When he was born I took one look at his fingers stretched out against the blanket and knew I had given birth to a musician. He's a drummer whose fingers are never still; he's always beating out a complicated rhythm that I suspect mirrors the beating of his heart.

My hope for him is that his empathy will enable him to reach his students in a rich and genuine way; my fear is that his empathy will overwhelm him. May the rhythms of his heart calm him and bring him courage to face the challenges to come.

It Is What It Is

I settled on the title of my blog after considering several other more "cutsie" names... Annie's Anecdotes was a serious contender. I didn't care much for that title but was at a loss for anything better when I started thinking about my daughter, Katie, and how often my conversations with her have included that catch-all phrase "it is what it is." It's an all-encompassing phrase that says so much in five small words.

I usually say it when something negative has happened and Katie is upset. When I say those words what I'm really saying is that the given circumstances exist and she has to face up to them head on. I don't believe in hiding one's head in the sand hoping for a change to occur; I think it's important to do what you can to make a change for the better and then learn to accept the status quo with good grace because well, it is what it is. Katie, I might add, fully embraces the phrase and does a very good job of keeping her head out of the sand.

Family Matters

Did you ever have someone in your life who you loved but who you could be with only in small doses because your personalities didn't quite mesh? My sister Kathy died suddenly the day after Christmas, and now I regret the small doses; I wish I had more time to spend with her. I never would have believed that I would feel such a void with her death, but there you have it. This person who could drive me crazy with her constant chatter and easy emotions is the one person in all the world I most want to see walking through my door.

My grief is all wrapped up inside a package complete with guilt and regret and it's not a pretty Christmas package; it's an ugly one that threatens to overwhelm me. I question whether I even have the right to grieve considering how I wasn't very nice sometimes, and I'm remembering every slight now, cringing at my behavior. How do I make amends when the person I need to apologize to is gone?

My heart is heavy. Grief is difficult; grief combined with guilt and regret is almost unbearable. My heart is broken and it’s not just because I miss my sister so much, but also because I missed out on so many opportunities to spend time with her and learn more about her. The sad truth is that I chose to exclude her from many of my activities, and now I'm paying the price. Personality differences played a large part. You can’t always be friends with your siblings and such was the case with Kathy. She was gregarious, generous, and fun-loving, all fine traits. But she could be overwhelming at times, which was why I preferred spending small doses of time with her rather than large chunks.

In retrospect those small doses of time don’t seem nearly enough, and therein lays most of my guilt and regret.

The rest of my guilt and regret has a lot to do with how I treated her at times – less like a beloved member of my family and more like a nuisance. This experience has taught me to place a higher value on each person in my sphere, both family and friends, and recognize that everyone brings something special to the table. Kathy’s special gift was her laughter, her generous spirit, and her ability to make everyone feel welcome; I always knew that, it’s just taken her dying to make me see it with clearer eyes and a more open heart.

I loved her; no one should ever doubt that. I believe that Kathy knew it and that she loved me despite my flaws. My hope is that someday soon I'll find peace in that knowledge and remember her with a happy heart instead of a heavy one.