the layers.

[one of my professors read this poem at my school's graduation last week.]


I have walked through many lives,

some of them my own,

and I am not who I was,

though some principle of being

abides, from which I struggle

not to stray.

When I look behind,

as I am compelled to look

before I can gather strength

to proceed on my journey,

I see the milestones dwindling

toward the horizon

and the slow fires trailing

from the abandoned camp-sites,

over which scavenger angels

wheel on heavy wings.

Oh, I have made myself a tribe

out of my true affections,

and my tribe is scattered!

How shall the heart be reconciled

to its feast of losses?

In a rising wind

the manic dust of my friends,

those who fell along the way,

bitterly stings my face,

Yet I turn, I turn,

exulting somewhat,

with my will intact to go

wherever I need to go,

and every stone on the road

precious to me.

In my darkest night,

when the moon was covered

and I roamed through wreckage,

a nimbus-clouded voice

directed me:

“Live in the layers,

not on the litter.”

Though I lack the art

to decipher it,

no doubt the next chapter

in my book of transformations

is already written.

I am not done with my changes.

- stanley kunitz

hello?

this is a test.
is this thing on?

I tried to post a blog a week or so ago to no avail...

what happens when?

..you don't have any answers.
..life doesn't slow down.
..you can't explain why you're disconnected.
..you don't know what you want or need.
..there are no words for things like school, pain, relationships.
..even sweatpants aren't comfortable enough.
..your capacity for situations is severely lower than what it has been before.
..it's impossible to snap out of it.
..you don't know what to say.

I know there's Jesus and all but...

at zack's service I saw one of the most powerful displays of a father's love for his son.

his family chose to do a memorial skydive for zack at sunset, so his two brothers, sister-in-law, friends, and dad decided to jump.

zack's dad carried his ashes and spread them during his freefall.

we were all on the ground while this happened but could tell when he did so. we could see it. then, an hour or two later, they played back the video they took of it over the screen.

the scene of his dad releasing his son's ashes into the sky unnerved me. it was too much to take in. that his father would choose to do so in a way so honoring to his son who had skydived over a hundred times spoke so much deeper than words of how much he loved him. how willing he was to simply say with his actions, "son, I love you so much."

a father should not have to do this. he shouldn't have to carry his own son's ashes. but he did, and it was so powerful. thank you, fogle family, for how you decided to honor zack's life.

life & death

on july 30th my friend zack passed away tragically in an accident that never should have happened.
on august 30th my sweet baby nephew jacob was born in an event we had been anticipating for months.

a month apart. tragedy and celebration. deep pain and inexpressible joy. life and death.

how am i here now, in the middle of both? I don't understand it, how both things could have happened a mere 30 days from each other. what does it mean that both occurred so close to each other, during my lifetime?

I can tell stories of zack, of how we met, what our friendship was like, and a bit of what it felt like to have someone in my life who cared for me more than I often care for myself. I can tell you the story of what it was like to be with my only sister as jacob was born.

but the events of both are really indescribable. the pain of not being able to have at least one last conversation with zack and the longing to simply hold and admire little baby j are both here. strong. it's meant that at a barbecue with friends I'll need to leave, go on a walk, and grieve. it's meant that even just before my first day back at classes this past week I've felt overwhelmed and not ready. it's meant that I'm having an even harder time deciding on doing the program in 3 or 4 years. it's meant that I've needed help to make decisions to care for myself, to get an extra day off work and to schedule another therapy session because I need someone to sit with me in all of this. it means that now, on this beautifully sunny day, i'm still lounging on my couch at 1 in the afternoon writing this blog, and i'm telling myself that it's okay.

zack's service is tomorrow night, and all i want to do is snuggle my nephew.

longing

for two weeks in the philippines I'd wake just after 5am when the four older girls across the hall would wake up and make a racket as they started their chores. sometime between six and seven I'd go downstairs and see sweet lydia in the kitchen working on the meals for the day. she'd smile at me as I'd put my toast in the toaster instead of eating their usual rice for every meal. I'd say hello, smile, and she'd smile back. often she'd even bring me sweet delicious mangoes.

then I'd go check on the toddlers. sometimes they'd need a shower, other times help putting on their shoes for school, other times they'd still be running around naked and we'd have to chase them down. around eight we'd walk them across the field to school. little john carlo would always freak out if he didn't have someone's hand to grasp, and I loved when it was mine.

for lunch and dinner every day, every meal, it was chicken at rice. this was a given. rice, rice, rice. erin and I were always given a ginormous plate of it and never even finished a third of it. but we'd eat at our own separate table behind all the other kids because that's where they placed us. after a few days they'd give us coke at dinner as well, which was a lovely treat.

the kids got home from school at 4 every day. they'd play outside, do their homework or their chores, sometimes we'd color with them or push them on the swing. they just need love. hugs. lots of hugs. they need people to care for them, just like we all do.

after dinner we'd help with the toddlers again with the impossible task of putting them to bed. they'd be all fine and cuddly with you until 8 rolled around and you actually physically put them into their beds. that was always the least fun part. they'd cry and whine and throw fits and run all over the place. eventually we'd just have to leave the room because we were more of a distraction than help.

each day was like this. i knew what was coming and what i'd eat. i knew i could ask to go into town if i needed to or could take a nap when i needed a break. no cell phone or internet. it was delightful.

now, back in the states, how does this way of living transfer over? can life ever be simple here? my heart found some sort of mysterious, deep rest in the philippines that hasn't died yet. but it's wondering how to settle down here in my 'normal life.' I've started a new job and go back to school next week, so the task to maintain this inner rest is daunting. but it's there, whispering to me that it's possible, that it can be. my therapist said today that she felt that I was more home within myself than I have been before, and I actually told her that it's true.

the kids are caring for me, too

I arrived to Manila after what certainly felt like forever. My butt had forgotten what it feels like to sit on a plane for over 16 hours. I got to the K.I.M. base and had an email that I never want to see: one from my parents saying only the words “call us when you have a chance.”

“Cori, I have some hard news to tell you. Zack died on Saturday in a skydiving accident. His chute didn’t open. I am so sorry” my mom told me once I finally found a phone. Those words keep ringing in my ears even now, days later, and I still wonder if it’s true.

I am thousands of miles away, in Malaybalay now, grieving the loss of a dear friend. One of the closest guy friends I’ve ever had, someone who cared about me so much, who stood by me even when I had walls up and wouldn’t let him closer. He and I were similar in many ways with our longing for adventure and our inability to ever really settle down. We’d always argue over who was more noncommittal.

What do I do with this loss, this heaviness in my heart for this friend I’ll never get to say goodbye to? What do I do with all of the unknowns of what our friendship really was, of why he died at only 27? What do I do with the care that I received from him, his kindness and warmth? How can this really have happened?

I cry, I grieve, I cringe as I think of how he died, I hurt for his dear family so much. I zone out and imagine his funeral and cry some more. I remember times we spent together and smile if only for a second. I feel the ache in my heart. It lingers and does not rest. It hurts.

I go then and play with the children here who I haven’t seen in nearly a year and a half. I lift up 4 year old Andrew, my boy and the main reason I came back. I tickle him and delight in his giggles and hugs. Glen Mark climbs up the couch and sits next to me, pointing to his books and saying “daa daa” over and over again. Little John Carlo and Mary Joy are two of the sweetest kids to be around with their deep brown eyes and long eyelashes. “Ate, Ate, what’s this? What’s this?” they ask repeatedly as they point to anything they can get their hands on.

I love on the kids, but have found that they are loving me as well. I am letting them. They are a comfort amidst my sorrow and pain. They too greet me with smiles, hugs, and laughs, and I let their warmth soothe my wounded heart. I feel that if I had to be away while this happened, this is the place for me to be. Where there’s not really any pressure but just a place for me to love and be loved, to care and be cared for, in one of the simplest environments I know. It’s where I have time and space to sit with myself, or if I am interrupted it’s only by sweet seven year old Rosalie who comes over and draws in my journal while I hold her in my lap. This, my friends, is therapeutic.

                Zack, the words I have for my grief feel so incomplete. I never thought I’d say this, but I thank God for that ridiculous Geological Perspectives class where we met seven years ago. I am so grateful for how you stood by me, cared about me, pursued me, and never relented in asking me to go on adventures with you. I’ll never forget our conversations or how you always made the world a lighter place for me, seeing my burdens that I held so heavily not as road blocks but as just a small part of the bigger picture. You had such a heart for those who are hurting and gave much of yourself to others. You were never satisfied, and I respect how you continually kept your heart alive.

                I could go on and on, but the words don’t suffice. I miss you. I don’t know how to say goodbye.  But thank you..