I hate funerals. I
actually don’t hate just the funeral part, I hate everything about them. I hate the flowers. I hate the required attire. I hate the music. I hate the tissues, and the
dim lights, and the satin pillows. And the cold. The lack of life.
My dad died 13 days ago.
His funeral was 5 days ago. I
haven’t cried yet. My blog today is all about wanting something else. Choosing.
Balance.
In the pocket of my jeans, or sometimes in the side pocket
of the purse I am carrying on any given day, I carry two different items.
The first is one of about 10 different “tokens” I have had
for years. I own a pocket angel, a rock,
a couple metal stones with sayings on them, and a rather smooth amethyst worry
stone. These rotate through my pocket depending
on my mood, and right now, the one I have been carrying most is a token that
says “balance”.
The second is a coin.
It doesn’t technically belong to me.
The man who actually owns the coin is currently carrying the coin I
usually carry. It was potentially a
selfish trade right at the time I requested the swap. A little bit of commitment and possession,
wrapped up in a tiny piece of plastic, in the middle of not having any idea if
I have any claim to the feelings at all. I am grateful.
I have been holding on very tight to these two items
(actually to the point of having a crease on my left hand) for the last four
days. I wake up with them in my hands in
the morning. They are currently right on
my laptop as I type.
I was gifted with a total moment of perfect clarity on
Sunday morning, with the tokens cutting into my hand all night. I had slept nine hours straight after having
not slept more than 2 or 3 hours a night in the last week, and everything else
has been pretty much a blurry nightmare.
The clarity came in the form of understanding that the coins
I have been carrying are attached to feelings and actions I have zero control over
right now, and even less insight into where they are going. The clarity came
from understanding my own fears and insecurities being really
unmanageable. The clarity came from
knowing I had just walked myself into something with my eyes wide open, and
lost myself anyway. I knew I had been
put in a box of accommodation to lots and lots of other people, and it had left
the authentic me raw, vulnerable, and frankly a kind of fucked up emotional
mess with absolutely zero soft place to fall.
This has me scared in a really awful way. I am currently
risking losing all my emotions at all.
That sounds dramatic, I know.
Like I should I be concentrating on the really good stuff. I am pretty good at making other people know
they are loved, and wanted, and real in my world. I have been a friend, a lover, a
confidant. I have been understanding and
willing in the face of unnecessary dishonesty.
I have been a dutiful daughter, a balanced sister, a frustrated but
present mother. All those roles, all
that responsibility, and all that strength made it so I have shut off. I don’t
want to shut off. What I want is
balance. Equity. Ownership.
The kind of grip I have had on the pocket tokens is essentially
the same reason I hate funerals. I get no say, none at all, in some of the
things around me. I get to comply.
Because even though I may looking at the same thing, there is a view that is
uniquely my own and no one can see it but me.
I want flowers now, not in some wreath with fancy ribbons
left on a grave to blow over in the wind.
I want to see people I never see NOW, before the only time we hold each
other close is in pain instead of in joy.
I want adventures, and love, and commitment, and friendship, and
support, and happiness, and I want to know that the people around me want it,
too. We all get to have it. The good stuff doesn’t run out. Until it does. And then the funeral is all that is left. Funerals sometime feel like a way to kick us
in the head and remind us that we don’t have time to waste, life is short. What are we waiting for? Can I hope to find some
balance, so that at the end of everything, the people I have invited in won’t
sit at my funeral, in dim light, with boxes of tissues, grieving never having
enjoyed my life. Balance. Tradeoffs. Living outside of boxes, and in perfect
clarity. Willingness to live. No regrets.
Maybe I won’t have to cry, not really. Maybe when I do I will find someplace soft to
be because I will have built it, created it, celebrating the amazing life I am
lucky to hold, and the places of love that expand as I hold on to little tiny
tokens. I get to choose. Funerals aren’t like that, but love is.
Do you have a token to share? I would like that. Invite it even. I am all in.
