In the soft folds

In the Soft & Softer Folds

In the soft fold of the chin

of the bended head of a mother in love

is the start of a new awareness, dawns

which move and shake and bring alive

her character, soul, bind it

Not a reflection of self, but of mysticism,

divinity, fresh laughs and dreams,

the possibility of it within her, within

this frailty, this trust.

In the softer folds of the chin

of the bended head of a mother in love

is the finality of truth and loss, epochs

which crack open that dangerous dance, let it free

evidence in the glass

Image, precision and sting

do not speak, break apart from tombs.

now that strong, bent lap of faith

for each new day, belief only

in precedent and nothing else

captured

in the soft folds of the chin of

the bended head of a mother.

-          R. Parrish

Abyss

Abyss

Relinquishing any possibilities

of unanticipated joys

she let herself go.

The fall into that catatonic state was

not as slow as the passing years made it seem.

No, it was very swift,

though imperceptible to ogling eyes.

It came upon the heels of an epiphany that

life, not as she then knew it, but as she had dreamed it,

was over. Over before

it ever even began.

The world was, in fact, not waiting for her,

as her sister had once proudly promised.

She had lost. She had been shown the door.

And beyond that shadowy threshold was a great, dark and unwelcoming abyss.

Looking back over her shoulder, just once,

she then turned and stepped through it.

And the fall began. Bottomless.

And you can hear her sardonic laughter every

now and then when someone else passing over

expects a miracle.

She knows…

no one will ever mutter the words to her,

“Where have you been?”

They will instead whisper to each other,

“Where did she go?”

The Fight is Over...

Neal passed away June 30, 2014. And just when I had vowed to go into social isolation with him. Perhaps I was not meant to. Who knows. But I am immobilized anyway with sorrow, the depths of which I had never imagined. Yes. I don't know quite how to do this - be a grieving mother. But I presume I will perfect it in time. I presume, too, that the world will go on (it has, after all) and that any marks we might have made or hoped to make won't matter. (Isn't it vain to think otherwise?) There will always remain with me the question of whether his passing was self-induced in some way. I think maybe, in part at least. And who could blame him?  I will say that I am also happy for him. Yes. For there is no more struggle. He is finally free.

As for me, I have learned that sorrow is not on a continuous loop. Grief may be, and time even, but sorrow is linear, a downfall, straight into an abyss of unfeeling.

I think that Neal, if he could have, would have written this poem (he certainly lived it).

A Dialogue between the Soul and the Body

By Andrew Marvell BY

SOUL

O who shall, from this dungeon, raise

A soul enslav’d so many ways?

With bolts of bones, that fetter’d stands

In feet, and manacled in hands;

Here blinded with an eye, and there

Deaf with the drumming of an ear;

A soul hung up, as ’twere, in chains

Of nerves, and arteries, and veins;

Tortur’d, besides each other part,

In a vain head, and double heart.

BODY

O who shall me deliver whole

From bonds of this tyrannic soul?

Which, stretch’d upright, impales me so

That mine own precipice I go;

And warms and moves this needless frame,

(A fever could but do the same)

And, wanting where its spite to try,

Has made me live to let me die.

A body that could never rest,

Since this ill spirit it possest.

SOUL

What magic could me thus confine

Within another’s grief to pine?

Where whatsoever it complain,

I feel, that cannot feel, the pain;

And all my care itself employs;

That to preserve which me destroys;

Constrain’d not only to endure

Diseases, but, what’s worse, the cure;

And ready oft the port to gain,

Am shipwreck’d into health again.

BODY

But physic yet could never reach

The maladies thou me dost teach;

Whom first the cramp of hope does tear,

And then the palsy shakes of fear;

The pestilence of love does heat,

Or hatred’s hidden ulcer eat;

Joy’s cheerful madness does perplex,

Or sorrow’s other madness vex;

Which knowledge forces me to know,

And memory will not forego.

What but a soul could have the wit

To build me up for sin so fit?

So architects do square and hew

Green trees that in the forest grew.

Why I Left Academia and Went Fishing

Given that I have been unable to find a full-time faculty position here in California, as I had hoped and as I have studied and prepared for, I have finally done what a small part of me knew I needed to just do. I have thrown in the towel and decided to go fishing instead. Yes, that's right. Fishing. Me, of all people. My last interview at a local university was fantastic, but it came down to me and another candidate...the other candidate got the job. I've applied for dozens, and frankly, I'm tired of it. I could be bitter, but I'm not. In all sincerity, I feel like I always end up where I am supposed to be. So, I'm teaching part-time still at an online university and making decent money doing so. I still get the joy of teaching, which I very much love. But all that research I had hoped to do...well, I'm just going to have to let that go. Instead of making some huge impact in the field, I'm going to make meaningful, small differences where opportunities present themselves for me to do so. Starting with my online students (a population I adore and who keep me connected), and above all else, my family.

My wife Angela works a fulfilling job and my daughter, Jenny, is having a great summer with the neighbor kids hanging out at the pool and playing baseball in the park. But in the last post I wrote here, I think I pretty clearly summed up my son's daily life. Truth is, he needs a companion. And truth is, that companion is just going to have to be his mom. Because I work from home now, I'm here...all the time. And so is he. I've decided, finally, that I will step away from the world, the world that has continually rejected him, and join him in his isolation. And we will make the most of it! The boy LOVES fishing, but he has no one to go with of course. Me? Well, yeah, not my favorite, but I'm going to LEARN to love it, lol. So no more academia applications and interviews! We are buying new poles and we are going to plant our selves on one of these gorgeous lakes that surround our house and...fish. Something tells me it's all going to be alright and maybe even just what I needed. :)

Join a Club or Something... [the Presence of the Absence]

After some reflection on recent conversations about what my son might do to “fill his time,” I have the following thoughts to share. First, if one more person suggests to me that he should join some community activity, I’m going to just explode. Do you seriously think we have not tried? For the past 18 years, do you think we have just been sitting on our hands, swinging our feet, whistling, watching the world go by? Do you think we have chosen this isolation over better prospects of a meaningful social life? Of course not! But there is always a reason he doesn’t fit in – the language barrier, visual barriers, the need for physical abilities, the need for cognitive abilities, you name it. For those among us who have not experienced rejection, I encourage you to go look up the word. Look up “social norms” while you’re there, too. Which brings me to my second point.

Someone else told me recently that, “we all go through things in life.” Let me explain something – my son is NOT “going through something in life.”  This IS his life. On a daily basis. Yesterday when he collapsed in my arms crying, shaking uncontrollably, I cried with him. He was broken-hearted over the loss of three new “friends.” I could not, in good faith, tell him that it would get better, that this will pass. You see, that is the difference. When typically-developing teenagers cry over friendships or romantic relationships, we know it will pass. We can hold them and tell them so, even though we cry for them in the meantime. But we know it is a phase of life they go through as they struggle to find and define themselves. We understand the value and the power of these peer relationships in an adolescent’s overall development. We know they will have other opportunities to make lasting relationships as they continue to learn how to develop them and as they begin to identify who they want their closest friends to be. My son doesn’t have choices like that. And he never will. He takes what he can get. Period. The end. I can’t hold him and tell him it will pass, because in his 18 years of life so far there is zero evidence of that being true. And it ain’t looking any better.

That said, I am doubly saddened when I think of what he has to offer if the world would have him.  He is brave beyond all measure. He is determined. He is inquisitive. He has a great sense of humor. He never gives up. What he could do if only he were allowed to try. And by try, I mean meaningfully so.

Take a moment, if you will, and imagine yourself as a teenager again. Imagine attending the same school that the neighbors’ kids attend, going to football games (maybe even playing on a team), dating cheerleaders, starring in the school play, singing in the chorus, skipping school to head to the lake for the day with your buddies. Imagine working in a job you want to have, a local pizza joint maybe, because your friends are working there too. Getting excited about graduation, the prom, applying to colleges, dreaming of the life you want for yourself – big things! Right?

Now imagine all that was taken away before you ever got the chance to even experience it, or worse yet, taken away while you watch all of your peers get to experience it just fine. Instead you are bussed to a school an hour or more away. You don’t know the neighbor kids. They can’t talk to you because you speak a different language, and they think you’re weird anyway. Your prom “date” is one of the professionals hired to work with you. You want to work, but no one will hire you to do anything you want to do unless you work in a place which is supported by the local community resource center for individuals with disabilities (think assembly lines – which isn’t actually viable because the bone structure in your wrists doesn’t allow them to rotate properly). You want to go to college, but… lol, never mind. Hell, you just want to go to the store for a cold soda on a hot summer afternoon, but it’s a bit of a walk and of course you can’t drive, never will. Can’t ride a bike either because of balance issues. And well, it’s very hot outside, and your heart condition can’t take the stress of that walk. Oh, and you don’t know how to count money so you have to trust you won’t get cheated, and the clerks behind the counter watch you like you’re trying to steal something, or they call 911 and report an apparently lost and disoriented teenager (who is neither lost or disoriented). Then the cops call your mom, and you’re humiliated in front of everyone in line behind you. And then you soil yourself.

But hey, you know what you should really do? Take everyone’s advice, stop whining, and join a club or something. “We all go through things in life.” Good luck with that…

[And this is what is known as the presence of the absence. It’s when that which we are missing is blatantly obvious every single day. Not sometimes – but every day. Pearl Buck once wrote of her daughter with cognitive disabilities, “I miss eternally the person she cannot be.” It’s a living loss for which we are not permitted the social spaces to grieve. It is the ever-present absence.]

P.S. I'm not whining here. Just trying to help people understand the reality we live with. But those statements, however well-intended, make me feel like I must look like a terrible mom to them or I'm not doing my job because I'm not getting him "more involved in things." And it's just not realistic. 

An epiphany?

Tonight two young boys have helped me realize that everything I have hoped for in these past 18 years is ridiculously out of my reach and I should just quit. Quitting is something I have dreamed about for a long time. To just step quietly away, go to sleep, let the chips fall where they may. But then there is that agonizing fear that the chips will fall into the pits of hell and when I wake up and realize I could have done something about that, I will regret it. So for that reason, I have not quit... not yet. But there's still time. Perhaps if I sleep, the chips will fall just where they are supposed to, without all of my nagging and petty interference. It's certainly something to think about.

I've also learned chronic sorrow isn't nearly as common as I thought. We, in particular, just suck at most things, therefore we are isolated and stuck. No wonder this is all so unpopular. I have said many times that the world doesn't want to hear about it...and I have railed against that, insisting they must! But no. .really. Why must they? Empathy can't be taught, after all.

Well hell, I don't want to do this anymore anyway. And trying to make a career out of it was among the stupidest things I've done. And though I can't get much of my life back, I will still gladly take any suggestions for an entirely new mid-life change of occupation! Hate myself over and over and over for not staying a bartender. I could have my own saloon by now, and my son could be happily working there getting his occasional drink on.

She falls. You leap.

She falls. You leap.

The Difference between Sorrow and Depression (in case you were curious - I actually have more factual research to share on the differences, but I thought this was a beautiful anecdote and so wanted to share it.)

“Another experiential difference between sorrow and depression is brought home in an anecdote concerning the writer James Joyce, and his daughter, Lucia, who was eventually diagnosed with schizophrenia. Although apparently apocryphal, the vignette makes an important existential distinction. Supposedly Joyce had brought Lucia to the eminent psychoanalyst, Dr. Carl Jung. Joyce was perplexed, regarding the difference between his own idiosyncratic thinking and the convoluted thought processes of his daughter. Jung is said to have replied: "She falls. You leap."

Indeed, we might say that depression is to sorrow as falling is to leaping. Put another way: we are overtaken by depression, but give ourselves over to sorrow. There is, in short, an intentional dimension to sorrow. The priest Francisco Fernández Carvajal tells us that, "...like love, sorrow is an act of the will, not a feeling."

(Reference: Pies, R. (2008). The anatomy of sorrow: A spiritual, phenomenological, and neurological perspective. Philosophy, Ethics, and Humanities in Medicine, 3(17). doi:10.1186/1747-5341-3-17)