there are not many people on this earth who could truthfully say they have known me very well and for a long time.
certainly some of my friendships borne of youth group and bible camp days rank comparatively high in familiarity. but even they have had narrow view. seeing someone once or twice a week for a few hours is not the same at witnessing their life, even if I were to explicate otherwise shrouded details as best I could--which I regularly did, to my internet friends, not unlike what I am doing now. (ah, the habits of homeschoolers. we all found our unique ways of socializing).
so my mom and sisters have known me for a long time, but there isn't really anyone else with that enduring knowledge. my dad understood and appreciated parts of me like no one else. he did not know me completely, of course. no one can--not even I! but our hours going to horse care workshops, fishing, fixing fences, and "gallivanting" were not just rich in activity but full of conversation. we assumed a particular format, every time: I would talk incessantly, he would listen and laugh. he would tell stories, I would express disbelief. I would become full of righteous indignation over the parts of the world I suspected were bullshit, and he would temper me with insightful words while his eyes twinkled with an unmistakable pride that his daughter believed in things.
we made one another known during these hours. it wasn't a knowledge that lay within him or within me; rather, it was held between us, the way a gardenia flower's warm fragrance may be held between gently cupped hands. a distinct and irreplaceable knowledge was lost when his body gave way to his brain's internal injuries. his cradled hand faltered while mine was left to grasp at the cold and open air.
it is almost impossible to be elegant in my grief, but I have damn sure tried. friends have probably heard my attempts to whittle this rough, knotty loss into a series of profundities. but honestly, as soon as I feel I've wrapped my heart and mind around these precarious shapes the pieces just shatter and reform into obtuse shapes all over again.
you know, I probably shouldn't have taken that exam two days after my dad died. there is some healthy ceremony in letting fresh wounds throb before we try to dress them up and do away with them. this seems to be a pattern: I'm realizing aspects of sadness and loss weeks or months beyond when they would have been useful.
grief is humbling. I'm sure I have said this before. but I know I'm better off for it. now that the seemingly implausible has shown itself quite possible I spend my days with a dull dread for who or what else may be snatched away in concert with the very palpable knowledge that I've suffered and survived what some people spend their whole adult lives dreading. this strange music surrounds, all of the time, every where I go.
my good friend Heather once called me very resilient. I appreciated that very much, as "resilience" means the ability to maintain overall stability despite disturbances. it's a term oft-used in discussions of the ecological integrity of a particular place, and a concept quite dear to my wistful agrarian heart.
but my inner landscape is mysterious even to me, with caverns and dimly-lit nooks, crannies and corridors. varied planes and textures. parts that seem dislocated from the whole.
it's difficult to objectively evaluate the self. perhaps my facade is one of order, of grief well-managed, and I am the only one truly privy to the household's mess. or maybe others see something I do not. there are many indicators in nature so I suppose my friends' observations should not be dismissed despite how discordant they seem with my own.
it's a rough road but here I am, more or less intact. so I have a strange and conflicted gratitude for that which I've already endured, since I know there are more disturbances to come.
