From a Different Lens

If only I knew then what I know now.

Last week while I was on break, I had the sudden urge to purge my room of unnecessary clutter. (Coffee may have had something to do with this spontaneous inspiration). My room is very clean, and I have always kept it that way. It's just cluttered. Between being away at college and going abroad last spring, I've taken on a bit of a nomadic lifestyle. I never feel like I'm totally settled in my Cape bedroom as far as my stuff is concerned, because summer hardly seems long enough for a complete revamping of decor or a rearranging of furniture. Physically, my room has hardly changed since I was in high school. There are several hints of the passing time though. Old collages have been replaced with black and white postcards from Paris, London, Rome, Krakow, Vienna, and other European cities. My Precious Moments cross from my baptism that used to hang next to my door is no longer there (it broke while I was in Italy. I was bummed about that). But there are some constants too, like the turquoise butterfly sculpture hanging on my high wall, its wings outstretched as if to guard me while I sleep.

I pondered these evolutions as I started on my desk. I was throwing away an old receipt when I found a light blue DVD in one of the cubbies on my desktop. It had nothing written on it. Curious, I brought it to my laptop and put it on....I never finished going through my room that day.

The DVD captured moments from my high school graduation. My family takes a lot of pictures but rarely captures anything on film, so I was trying to remember where this footage came from. Then it all came back to me - my uncle, my dad's brother, had taken it and made a copy for us. He gave it to me after my dad had passed away.

Technology is beautiful in this way. Beautiful because it captures moments that we are not necessarily aware of at the time. While I was lining up with the rest of my class in the school gym, donning my cap and gown and yellow cords, I had no idea that my dad was playing a practical joke on my aunt, his baby sister. The DVD captured it all. There they were, my large family, sitting down before the ceremony and taking up more than a few folding chairs. Then there's Dad's voice: "Watch this." He has a twinkle in his eye. (Someone once told me that I have "expressive" eyes. I wasn't sure what that meant at the time. Now I'm wondering if they come from him). He is laughing to himself, eyeing my aunt who is coming down the row of chairs. But I'll never know what the joke was or how it turned out, because the footage had cut before all was revealed.

I had no idea of these antics when I stood in the school gym, excited butterflies in my stomach. It wouldn't have ever even occurred to me at the time to think about what my family was doing outside without me on June 6th, 2009...

But I also didn't know that my dad would be dead in a year.

As I watch the footage, my mind is calculating dates. Fifteen months between my graduation and his death. Was the tumor already formed? Were his cells violently attacking each other as he laughed into the camera?

When you suffer a major loss, you become extremely attached to old mementos and reminders of your deceased loved one. I was devastated when the footage stopped after about twenty minutes. Like a drug addict, I found myself wanting more. More footage, more jokes, more anything. You want your fix, the high of seeing a side to your loved one that you haven't seen before, moments previously captured. I found myself hanging on to every word, every movement. And to think, I had him 24/7 before.

My grandma was also featured on tape. Back at our house following the ceremony, the camera finds her in the chaos of my friends and family. She is talking about handsome military guys she met at my cousin's graduation from Annapolis Naval Academy. She jokes that I have to go down to Maryland so that she can set me up with one.

Grandma too would die of cancer the next year. This would be the last time I would see her alive.

Who knew that my high school graduation would be so important? At the time, it seemed significant because I was at the top of my class and making the transition to college. Although that was all part of it, it was important because I was nearing the end. Nearing the end of my life on earth with two cherished members of my family.

I was innocent. Gloriously oblivious.

We all were.

If only I knew then what I know now. 

Today, I know better. In my younger years, I didn't know that the boy I worked with in the summers, the boy with the most beautiful smile, would die in a dirt bike accident at sixteen. I didn't know that I would lose my dad while I was still a teenager.

But how can we know these things?

We can't.

I think this is exactly why I can be very anxious about change. Previously, change meant death. To me, change means a grieving family. It means hopelessly trying to adjust to a world that is moving so quickly. It means feeling stagnant when friends and acquaintances seem to be moving forward with their lives in a glorious bubble of naivete.

I wish I could say I have all the answers now. I don't.

But I do live differently.

Sometimes I think that we all truly believe that if we can only grow up and get ourselves together, we will be immune to life's trials and tribulations. But that is not the case. Life doesn't work that way. I thought that going to college would be my only major transition during young adulthood. How wrong I was. We are not even remotely aware of our futures, our own futures or those of people we love the most. Just like we aren't aware of what's going on behind the scenes. Or from someone else's perspective. In this case, my uncle's.

When I work with grieving children at CZC, forgetting is a common concern. Some of the children were very young when they lost a parent, too young to remember him or her. They bring pictures and their surviving parents' stories. Stories and pictures. That's all they have left - other people's stories and accounts of the man or woman who brought the child into the world.

And that is exactly what this DVD footage represents for me. It presents a new perspective, a memory that I can now hold close to my heart. And when we put our perspectives together, they form the images of lives lived. Courageous battles fought. A loving grandmother. A fearless dad.

I've vowed to start paying attention. My mind is constantly capturing mental photographs. I have taken to writing down meaningful conversations I have with others and the poignant wisdom that comes my way. I want to have these memories.  Because now I know.

I see from a different lens.

Journal Excerpt. Age 11.

I found this in my school journal that I haven't looked at in over ten years. My eleven-year old self had some insight...

September 10th, 2002

A home is different from a house in a certain way. First, a house is an actual structure. It is a certain structure where you live. A home, in my opinion, is a place where you are happy and you feel loved. A house is just a building, but home is wherever you feel happy butterflies and are glad to live there.

What I See...

Yesterday, while standing at my kitchen window waiting for water to boil, my eyes scanned our backyard. The late afternoon sun bathed the rhododendrons, the porch, and the lawn that is slightly brown in protest of this winter's snow and its suffocating properties. 

Something caught my eye - four cardinals. The birds had perched themselves on one of the smaller bushes in the yard. That's interesting that so many of them are together, I thought. I don't think I have ever seen more than two of these birds at once. As I ponder this occurrence, my eyes find something on the ground in front of them. Something red, limp. 

I'm teary-eyed now. These cardinals are mourning the loss of one of their members. I came across a  news clip the other day, "Monkey Troop Mourns Loss of Baby." A baby monkey sniffs her friend lying on the ground, looks up wide-eyed, and lets out a shriek. "This is a confusing time for the other youngsters," the newsman explains. You don't say, I thought. Although he is likely reading off of a script, I applaud the news anchor for acknowledging the utter confusion that comes with a loss. Death is a part of life, but that does not take away its power to leave us in the dark, wondering just how this could have happened and why. 

These thoughts and emotions flood me again as I watch the cardinals. I'm sorry guys, I know how you feel. As I attempt some kind of communication through telepathy, they obviously don't hear me. But in a strange way, I really want them to. 

My pot of boiling water is overflowing by now, so I take my eyes away. I tell myself that I will go outside to the dead cardinal later. But once I remember this plan after dinner, it's dark. 

This morning, I am at the kitchen window again. I remember the cardinal, and look for it. But I don't even have to go outside. In the morning light, it is clear. The morning light presented a new revelation, one that I wasn't ready for.

The dead cardinal was not a dead cardinal at all. It was one of Rocky's red bones. 

The "cardinal" was just a bone. 

This news hits me like a ton of bricks. I am mourning a new loss. I am not grieving for a dead cardinal, but for something else. There is a deeper emotional need here. 

I really didn't want the "cardinal" to be a dead cardinal. Trust me. I have been known to cry when our cat kills a chipmunk. So I didn't really want to be watching cardinals mourning. Or did I? 

Part of me did want that. I wanted camaraderie. Even if just with the birds. I wanted to know that I wasn't alone. But another side of me was relieved for the cardinals. Relieved that these birds could just fly on their merry way. 

Confusion. Relief. Confusion. Relief. I'm sorry. For who? For what? 

I go outside, finally. It is, in fact, just a bone...

But I still see a cardinal. 

Full Circle

Home for the weekend, I started the day today with a walk to Randy's house three doors down to do something about my eyebrows. (Yes, I can walk to my hair salon. Jealous?) I walked in and greeted Randy, who was working on a client's highlights. This woman and I  immediately struck up a conversation about our experiences in yesterday's storm. As we were chit-chatting, something about her seemed very familiar. Strangely familiar. But this was just a fleeting thought, and I hardly remembered it until two minutes later.

"Maria." This blonde woman whose energy I recognize smiles at me. I realize there's more going on here.

"Maria, do you remember me? From Dr. Woods' office? I used to work on your teeth. Boy, do I remember you."

There it is. The lightbulb goes off. I cannot believe it.

"COURTNEY!!!" I exclaim and she engulfs me in a bear hug.

I had braces from 11-14. Courtney was one of the orthodontist's assistants. Not sure what the exact job title is, but you know who they are. They're the ones who actually do almost everything before the doctor comes in and pokes around your mouth for the last two minutes of the appointment.

Courtney wasn't just another assistant. As far as I was concerned, an appointment during which I wasn't assigned to Courtney was an appointment wasted. I completely idolized her. I don't know what it was. Something about her disposition made me feel special, like she was happy to see me too. She was absolutely hilarious. She involved me in her life. Twenty-five at the time, about twelve years older than me, she was kind of like a big sister that I got to see once a month.

When I was thirteen, her boyfriend proposed to her. I still remember it. I remember gawking at her ring, a beautiful silver band with three tiny spherical diamonds. I remember that she was glowing. I remember smiling because I could see how happy she was. I remember when she looked at me in all of my childlike fascination and laughed. "Someday," she told me. "And I better meet him first!" She joked.

Today, she showed me pictures of her beautiful redheaded two year-old. She and her husband just celebrated their sixth anniversary. She's in her early to mid-thirties. Still just as I remembered her.

I stayed for a half hour, soaking up these moments of my past. This connection that even I had forgotten all about. How beautiful it is when someone can remind you of yourself. Courtney remembers me in a way that I cannot.

While I have memories of Courtney, she has even stronger memories of me. She said she remembers Joey crying when he couldn't come back and sit with me during my appointment. She remembers my long, flowing hair in braids. She remembers my nerves when I began high school. But I certainly didn't expect to hear this as I left the salon today. Actually, she said it twice: "Hun, I always knew you would do big things."

Was I really that important to her? She had complete faith in me? I was twelve or thirteen. That's something you usually tell your daughter or little sister, not some little girl you joked around with almost a decade ago.

All of our lives are so intricately woven. Like a spiderweb, our paths resemble strands that diverge and connect and intersect at times. After my braces came off, I never saw Courtney again, until now. I don't even remember if I was able to say goodbye way back then.

For anyone who has ever read and loved "The Five People You Meet in Heaven," you may understand how I feel. This story may seem trivial, but it feels so sacred. Here is a woman who, although essentially a stranger, believed in me. She holds a piece of me inside of her, whether I knew it or not. She knows my gap-toothed grin and my baby face. She watched me grow. And I am so happy to have intersected with her today, to have been reminded that while the world is small, those whispers from the past always seem to come back around.

But this time, without the braces.

Distortions

I walked into Capacidad this afternoon with cold hands. I put my backpack down and turned around just in time to hear cries of, "Maria!" (It's been two weeks since I was last there). Amelia is doing her homework, and asks me to help her. I walk over to her table and hardly sit down before something comes out of her mouth:

"Wow. You're skinny."

I freeze for a second. I'm uncomfortable. I make some comment about how I'm wearing a flowing cardigan today and try to change the subject. But Amelia plows on.

"I hope I'm still skinny like you when I'm growed up."

This is just getting worse.

"Are you a dancer?" Not quite sure where this is going, I say that yes, I was a ballet dancer when I was a bit younger.

Amelia matter-of-factly replies, "Of course you were. You WOULD do skinny people things."

Skinny people things? 

(It's worth mentioning that Amelia is just six).

This starts a conversation. I explain that actually, there are all different body types and that anyone can dance. Anyone can play sports. Everyone is beautiful. What matters is how we treat others. Amelia looks skeptical, but gets back to her math. I breathe a sigh of relief. For now.

God help my future kids, because I just don't know what to say sometimes. This is not the first time I've had conversations about weight with children. Another girl at Capacidad asked me a few weeks back to help her do her "exercises" so she "doesn't get fat." She is eight. I explained that it is important to exercise to stay healthy, but that she is perfect just the way she is. Again, she looked skeptical.

This whole episode has me thinking about distortions. Those constant, blaring thoughts that we are "not good enough." And these thoughts don't necessarily have to do with appearance, either. On another day at Capacidad, I ran over to a crying girl on the playground. She turned her splotchy face towards the monkey bars and sputtered, "Andrew got across and I couldn't! I'm not good at ANYTHING!!!"

(Sidenote: Andrew is four years older and two heads taller).

Little girl not being able to get her five-year-old self down the row on monkey bars turned into "I'm not talented enough."

I was of course sympathetic, but once she calmed down I dismissed this as a "juvenile" concern.

Oh, hold it right there, Maria.

You do the same. exact. thing. 

So the monkey bars aren't necessarily an issue for me. I mastered those long ago. But I do have moments of insecurity, and it's just incredible how quickly these thoughts take over.

We all do it. Why can't I be as outgoing as my extraverted roommate? Why does this person (seem to) have it all together and I don't? Why, why, why? The useless guilt. The comparisons.

When this happens, I try to nip it in the bud. I think of my positive qualities. Does that always help in the moment? No. But it's a start.

That's why I was so glad when it was time for "Star of the Day." Each day at Capacidad, a child is chosen and his or her name is written on a large piece of paper. We then gather the rest of the kids together and have them say one nice thing about that person. Today, Devine received a positive poster to take home.

What if you were your own "Star of the Day?" How would life be different?