rambling for Jane

The dog days of summer are here. I am stuck in them. The slow movement prescribed by sticky heat makes me see myself moving at a slow pace through the backyard grass; not enjoying the feel of too tall green grass on my legs. The air seems to get inside my lungs and hang there until I force it out. I can't drink enough water.

My work brings me into contact with such tradgedy, such stories of hope with the accompanying raised bar of inspiration. I think that is the hardest thing sometimes about what I do is hearing these stories....of people raising themselves up after the worst imaginable experiences. People talking about those experiences in a way; matter of fact, humorous even that almost always makes me feel small. Its where words are useless; because sincerity is what matters. I really try to let them see how amazing I think they are....and its usually so frustrating because they have so much trouble believing it. So often, what I call courage, resilience and strength is just "what happened."

I wish we could each have a moment on a stage; a universal stage where we could tell our stories and see how they are heard; see the person others see. When someone dies is when the stories get told. ridiculous! They should be told by the person.

But, maybe I am missing the point. Maybe, I want recognition for people. Because the deaths in Norway, from terrorism, from war, even the death of a sister of a friend of mine sometimes blur together after a while. When I think of the stories of these people who have died tragically, senselessly and too soon, I hope and have some surety, that their story, not just the ending, was known or told to people who loved them. Their stories, mostly, had the meaning they could have in this big bad, good, distracting world of ours.

 Maybe I am hoping recognition, acknowledgement of the power of one life will help ease the sting for those I care about suffering through grief. Really, though, I think, after the loss, the hardest part of grief is to feel alone, empty of the presence, the chance to be changed even in a small way by the person who has died. Sometimes, a funeral is the space where I understand how powerful we are in the lives around us, how altered by those we love or even spend time with.

Maybe, this heat is the physical expression of an answer in this rambling search for comfort and meaning. I walk slowly, farther into the tall green grass, feeling each molecule of water based air alter my course, slow me down until I stop, breathing in this heavy summer air and seeing myself, for a moment, a living being standing among air, water, trees, grass.