It's been so long. Haven't had the combo of calm and emotion that I like to launch each blog entry, but today I am allowing myself pajamas at noon. Silk and dotted with maroon hearts of all sizes. I think they are silk, discover in a clothing exchange by my eldest daughter. In case you don't know, my youngest daughter lost her second child, Jade Bird Guthrie at 4 days.
I want to be like Maira Kalman, focused delightfully on the ordinary even after she lost her husband and partner Tibor. If you don't know her, you probably do and don't know. She did many New Yorker covers, including the famous "Newyorkistpan" one after 911, remember Kvetchnya, Pashmina, and Botoxia? She has the gift of humor after loss, and a humorous approach to life.
She also illustrated Obama's inauguration for the New York Times. I first found her in Bill Gersh's house, the children's book Max Makes a Million, about the poet dog whose dream is Paris. And guess what? He sells his book of poems for a million and gets to live that dream. Wonder why I love her?
I recommend her, just Google, she's a vitamin for me, loving the odd and the daily, a man's suit, a paper punch, and hats and hairdos everywhere. Which brings me to Beti again., the hair stylist. My mom on her yahrzeit or anniversary of death. Same date as Robert Winson's so I light two candles. My mom has been gone 15 years which is difficult to grasp. This year I was glad she was not here to endure the loss of our grandchild, Jade Bird. She missed all of my lovely and living grandkids, but we enjoy them for her. Galen's blond tuft of hair we attributed to her expertise in coloring.
I know it's been six month's since we lost Jade Bird and why I haven't written in this blog. I wanted to experience the processing of grief. This week the lovely Mary Beth came by with a card for Jade. Late, she said. But it was perfect, an acknowledgement that this is real and human and endures.
As I was deciding to write this two occurrences occurred... My g-mail opened up to the week of Jade's death and the e-mails pouring in and out around it. My heart has been a bit dumbed down due to anti-depressants, one I can't pronounce. Then just now a bird hit the window about four feet away from me. I think it is reminding me to write. Hope, my bereaved daughter, has been writing sporadically and said it needs a warning label. She goes for it. I realized that so much of how I am now is better, and I don't feel compelled to tell every stranger on the street, or man emptying trash at the post office, or bank teller what happened to Jade. But though the outer M & M coating is less crisp and now deeper, maybe a fig Newton, there is still a core of loss.
So, 45 current blog followers (up from the nine I brag about), if it's too much you can unblog me.
My gift to you is Maira Kalman. Your gift to me is reading this. I met Tess Gallagher after Raymond Carver died and she was still visiting the grave daily, and having people impatient with her. Get over it could be the national mantra. She said there is an ecology of grief, a term which stayed with me over 20 years. She and Donald Hall, and Phyllis Hotch, and Miriam Sagan and Paul Monette and Isabel Allende and Joan Didion and Mirabai Starr all wrote bravely into the grief. A baby that didn't make it, but made it for four days is not a teenager or losing a lover. But a loss is a loss is a loss, and grief will have its wild way with us.