children, clown, grace, grief, loss, openness, suffering, why
How can it be that even clowns die? Our community lost a dear soul this week suddenly, without warning. We are shocked beyond measure, devastated. Vincenzo Tortorici was many things: loving father, larger-than-life personality, accomplished juggler, master of ceremonies, vaudevillian, puppeteer, Buddha scooter jockey and introspective wise old soul. A clown and actor by trade, he made the lives of children a little brighter during their stays at the local children’s hospital. Dr. Pucci was a miracle worker who knew how to set nurse traps with toilet paper, catch invisible balls in paper bags and make children forget where they were for a little while. I love to laugh and I make my attempts at humor, often funny only because of their feeble nature. I am not a natural; he was, sparkling eyes and all. I honestly can’t recall a single encounter with Vince where I did not laugh. We have boys the same age but as they have gotten older their interests have diverged. My interactions with Vince have been reduced to chance encounters in the grocery store or the YMCA. Social media has allowed me to stay in touch, laughing at his musings and putting in a comment or two. Even in the way he wrote you could hear his humor reflected. That’s a skill! Vince signed his posts with a clown face. :o) Of course he would. More than a humorist though, Vince could meditate profoundly over deep questions of spirituality, the root of creativity and on suffering. With his loss we suffer. The void is great. We ask ourselves: Why? How do we hold this...
children, college, grief, letting go, parenting, Photograph by Ken Gehle, Pinterest
My oldest child goes off to college tomorrow. She’s ready. It’s time. I’m ready. It’s right. Then why is this stupid tear crawling down my face?! The shopping is done, the gear organized and after some girl time getting mani/pedi’s this afternoon we will start loading the car. Whoa…it’s getting real now. I spent the morning taking care of some last minute paperwork and making sure any final fees are paid, printing receipts. When my girl was little she would have what her dad and I called, “Teeny-tiny-temper-tantrums.” They were not so teeny really. Well, I just had one when the printer was not forthcoming with my receipts. One should not get so bent out of shape over an empty paper tray. I suspect grief. This next step in her life is a good thing. I know that. But this is also an ending and we’ve had our share of those over the last few years. To be fair, we’ve had new beginnings too, some very good ones. This is one. “Every end is a new beginning.” ~ Proverb I’m also struggling with the idea that this is not happening the way that it “should.” Her dad should be here. He had an absurdly long reach. How are we going to get things into the cabinet above her closet? He won’t be there to capture the events of the day with his camera. I will try but I tend to forget to take pictures when I get caught up in the moment. There is one shot I would make sure to get though, him kissing her head before we...
close up, grief, loss, Photograph by Tamara Beachum, Photography, widow
In the immediate weeks after my husband died I found myself zooming in to take pictures of ordinary things. I wish I could say exactly why but it was just something I did. It gave me some unnamable comfort to focus no farther than the distance to the end of my arm. My favorite wine still bubbled. Distracting myself from the task of buying new tires – something he always did - I examined the colorful candies in the vending machine. Considering a crack in the cool floor, my children playing nearby. My sweet cat’s sympathetic eyes. I looked at what had not changed. The sun still came up in the morning, the wind still blew, and for now these things endured no matter who was in the world and who was not. Close ups were my instinctive way of recognizing some level of gratitude for life. There they were, existing alongside my grief. Something, however small, was still right. What do you still appreciate that has not changed? What comforts you? What brightens or lessens an otherwise painful moment? What patterns, colors or textures give you a moment of respite? I invite you; take a close...
grief, marsh, Photograph by Ken Gehle, widow
How did I get here? Is this really my life? It’s certainly not the one I had planned out. This is how I thought it was supposed to happen: Awesome career Strong marriage More happily engaged career until children Stay-at-home mom for a bit More rewarding career time Joyful retirement Travel with husband of close to 40 years by then Eventually settle close to home and grow contentedly old with husband while playing with our grandchildren Naïve, I know. What I did not plan or even conceive of was: Awesome career Strong marriage More happily engaged career until children Not being able to afford the stay-at-home mom dream More rewarding career time but profoundly stressful Layoff resulting in slide into ill-fitting jobs Husband diagnosed with cancer at 44 – trying to save his life every day Husband dead at 46 (Insert record scratch sound here.) What, now?! “Life is what happens to us while we are making other plans.” ~ Allen Saunders, writer and cartoonist No, this was not the life I had planned. But here it is and it is still mine to live even if it is not proceeding according to my original design. So what do I do with it? What do any of us do when faced with an enormous life challenge? You keep moving: one breath at a time, one heartbeat at a time, and eventually one step at a time. The salt marshes of the Carolinas are known for their pluff mud: a mixture of fine sand, silt, water and plenty of organic matter. It’s pull-your-shoes-off thick and the smell –...
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