Seasons

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

-Dylan Thomas

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When my sister announced my mothers funeral on facebook, she said "She did not go gently into that good night."

I knew enough of the poem to get the basic meaning, and it was true. My mother died a fighter. In many ways the last 6 months of her life diminished her strength, but when it came down to it, she was angry angry angry at dying.  

The last stanza of the poem brought me to tears this morning:

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

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I remember the first Forth of July without my grandmother. At 16, I felt a desperate need to try to keep everything the same. I had my first job, in an ice cream parlor, and I begged for the day off to be with my family.

I don't remember the day specifically, but rather the sense of lopsidedness, of something/someone missing. 

It seemed to take years for the new traditions to really take hold. Holidays without my grandmother's gentle presence felt off for many years.

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When my mother was in the hospital last November, there was a very clear moment when I felt my grandmothers love take form in a chair. Not a ghost, or a visitation, but a sense of her in the room, through all of us gathered to care for and fight for my mother. My aunt, a cousin who is a retired nurse, my brother, cousins and great cousins, all crowded in to the half of the hospital room that belonged to my mother, trying to keep that sense of rightness and wholeness intact.

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My mom was no great cook. She loved to bake, she loved to decorate for the hollidays, but the holiday meal per se was always a pain in her butt.  For years now my sister and I have done most of cooking and organizing, but until last year, we have all gathered at my parents house.

The house was emptied and sold in October. It was the right season to sell. My father didn't need the hassle a 4 bedroom house, and I didn't need the fear of him falling down one of the two sets of stairs.

And yet, and yet, for the house to be gone, the home to be gone, it is that mising piece again, the flat spot in an otherswise round and rolling world.

My father is a man of many talents, most of them expressed in building things, but the archstone in their house were the tiles he he hand scupted and glazed for the fireplace. The midpoint was a C, flanked by the years 1622 and 1992, the year his first ancestor came to this country, and the year that he completed the renovations on the house. Down each side was a set of tiles depcting the seasons.  We couldn't take them with us, and yet, I think it was the one thing most of us wanted. So little of what my parents had in their house was imbued with much history or sentiment--we had been poor farmers and carpenters for too many generations to have much in the way of silver, or antiques or even diarys and letters. So the tiles stay.  At the closing I  asked the real estate agent to let the family know that if they ever decide to take the tiles down, that we would like them.

I wonder what story they tell about tiles to visitors?

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Unlike many mothers, my mom was a joy to buy gifts for. She was easily delighted, and I loved thinking of gifts for her.  

As I begin shopping for the holidays, I find myself alighting on things for her, and then remembering she isn't here any longer

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So what is this season? Winter I suppose. I remember a set of sermons from when I went to church during collge. The sense that even when the earth is frozen (as it was in Baltimore), there is a lot going on beneath the surface. The difference between depression and winter is the aliveness underneath the surface.

I hadn't realized it, though in retrospect it seems obivous, I was quite depressed. Accutely since the boys came home from the hospital, and with increasing intensity for the last few years. I wasn't necisssarily sad, the way I had been in the past, but rather irritable and angry. My husband finally confronted me about it at couples therapy, and our therapist suggested I see a psychiatrist.  It took about two weeks from that sesion to the appointment, and in that time I felt as if I had to make a case for myself.  Instead, he listened to me, and said, in effect, you are much more depressed than you know. After about 20 years of therapy, I finally tried anti depressants, and holy crap, what a difference. It feels as if I can actually use those 20 years of therapy rather than just feeling a shitty person who can't even use all the tools she's been given.

So this feels like a real winter. A gathering of strenght and resources for the hard work of budding and blooming in the spring.  

Comments

[Claire]

What a beautiful, poignant post.thank you for writing it. As someone who feels conflicted about both my parents deaths there's a lot I can relate to. And a friend who raged against her dying too. Glad you're getting those ADs. I hope that will help everything - rap your mood and your marriage :)

[Claire]

Both, not RAP!