Letter to my Daughter

My dearest daughter,

When I was 27 weeks pregnant with you, my father, your grandfather, passed away unexpectedly. I grieve for the loss of my father, and I also grieve that you will never know your grandfather. He was so very excited to have a granddaughter on the way, and I know he would have delighted in you.

When I initially set out to write you this letter, my goal was to give you a sense of who your grandfather was, to capture, in some small way, a bit of his essence and give it to you here, a gift from mother to daughter, a gift of words and thoughts and hopes and memories. While struggling to decide just what stories I would give you here, what qualities to describe and how to hone in on what defined him more than anything else, I first landed on his fearlessness. He never hesitated to share his opinion, he had a strong sense of right and wrong, and he rooted for the underdog more often than not. He was quick to laugh, and when his temper did flare up, he was quick to forgive. He had no fear of expressing himself, of rejoicing, out loud, in the beauty of the world around him. He didn't fear honest praise, and he was ever an ardent cheerleader in our home. Countless times I remember him gazing at my mother with glowing eyes, encouraging all of us children to "Look at your mother! Look how beautiful she is. Go on, tell her how pretty she is." I remember thinking that we should all hope to be so lucky to be as loved as my mother was, then, basking in my father's adoration. I grew to love watching my dad's face light up each time I accomplished something, and even as an adult, he was often the first person I would call to share good news with, knowing that he would take such satisfaction in my small triumphs, whatever they might be. I hope that I can approach the world with this same open heart, and in doing so, teach you to be fearless as well, brave in your beliefs and your ability to face the world around you on your own terms, just like your grandpa did.

I mentioned laughter already, didn't I? Oh little one, the laughter in our home, it was raucous and loud and always bubbling beneath the surface. We fought one another and then laughed about it endlessly, and your grandfather told the best stories, stories that had us all howling with laughter, often turning into stop-I-can't-breathe laughter. I still remember the peace I felt when, as a child, I would lay in bed with my windows open on warm summer nights, and the sound of my parents laughter would drift into my room, lulling me to sleep, safe in the knowledge of their presence and their joy in one another, their happiness with their friends and their small family.

And bundled up with all this fearlessness and laughter was an undercurrent of kindness. Daughter, your grandfather was a kind man, full of forgiveness, with an innate knack of knowing how to connect to people. He listened to people, and people responded to this open ear, this open heart, in a myriad of wonderful ways. He counseled teenagers, he talked to them, he heard them, and daughter, when you listen to people and you really try and hear what they are saying, they will open up little doors in their hearts and you never know what wonderful stuff might come out. Young adults found a champion in your grandfather, and in listening to them, he gave them a voice, a belief in the power and the validity of their thoughts and actions, and in doing this he touched the lives of countless young people. When I look at pictures of my father, I often see that his gaze is not at the camera, but rather at the people around him, people that he loved dearly, and his eyes are soft and his mouth is smiling and you can almost see his gentle soul drifting out to alight on those around him, shining and bouncing and rejoicing in all of us.

But I would be remiss to stop here, to not share with you what I think was underneath all that fearlessness, what held that heart open when others might have closed, what led the people who knew him to remark on his patience and his kindness and his laughter, and that, my dear daughter, is love. As the days pass and I have more time to reflect on my father, on what made him tick, I'm struck by his capacity to love, to love deeply and openly and with abandon, to express this love verbally and physically, with words and hugs and a gentle squeeze of the arm. My father is no longer with us, not physically, but his love remains, as strong as ever. Perhaps this has been one of the more revealing aspects of this loss, the fact that I can still feel my father's love, even without him here to remind me of its existence. And as I ready myself to give birth to you, I begin to understand more and more the way that love can transcend our physical forms, because already, little one, I love you, utterly and completely and always and forever, and I realize that my father loved us all in this way, and that love is still here. It is all around us, in the smiles and the laughter that we share, in our delight for the beautiful gifts that surround us, in our gratitude for the memories we share and the memories yet to be made. My father let his love shine out onto the world around him, painting broad golden strokes that brushed across the lives of his family and his friends, and that light lingers there still. Your grandfather lived a life full of laughter, he loved fiercely, and he chose kindness more often than not. For this, he was loved in return, deeply, and this legacy of love will extend to you. A part of your grandfather will live on in you, as it does in all of us, and he will forever be a part of your heart, as he will forever be a part of our hearts. In this way, dear daughter, none of us are ever truly parted.

Love,

Your Mother

32 weeks

Me at 32 weeks (almost). I'm getting into the uncomfortable stage, and Jeff is fighting a losing battle with the pillows that keep getting added to the bed. The baby is doing well, and has moved into a head-down position, where she'll hopefully stay until she makes her debut. We're working on finishing up her room and trying to distinguish between "needs," "wants," and "utterly superfluous." Right now I am pushing for some diapers, at the very least.

Lutsen

Jeff and I spent a beautiful weekend at Lutsen, soaking up the sunshine and the sound of the waves lapping at the shore. I find that there are few things in this world as soothing as a large body of water to gaze across. During times of great sorrow, the vastness of a sea, or an ocean, or a great lake has the power to calm racing thoughts and smooth the jagged edges of the heart. Sitting at the edge of Lake Superior, I was finally able to think about my dad without the sensation of being choked by scrabbling fingers of grief clawing at my throat. The expansive beauty of the North Shore gave me the space I needed to think, and I had only to open my eyes to be startled into a sense of wonder…a bald eagle flushed from the brush at the edge of the lake, sweeping by our heads…an endless blanket of stars wiping the sleep from my eyes at three in the morning, peeping through my window and beckoning me onto the balcony, whispering stories of mystery and time and the expansiveness of the universe.

The weather over the weekend was glorious -- warm, sunny, and calm.

At night we watched the moon dance over the water




and in the morning the sun rose over the lake in a puddle of gold and blue.




We started each day with breakfast at the Lodge



And then headed into Grand Marais. We found a local music festival





and then headed home to cook up dinners at our cabin.

Steak with aspargus risotto, brats and sweet corn, then evenings by the fireplace, listening to music and talking softly in the dark.

Sustaining Words

I am exhausted right now. Sleep is fitful at best, and unfortunately I can't jack myself up on caffeine to counter sleepless nights. Having to go through something like losing my dad without any of the normal crutches that I would use has been a trial and a blessing all at the same time.

I keep re-reading one of my favorite poems by Mary Oliver, called Bone. It starts like this:

1.
Understand, I am always trying to figure out
what the soul is,
and where hidden,
and what shape –
and so, last week,
when I found on the beach
the ear bone
of a pilot whale that may have died
hundreds of years ago, I thought
maybe I was close
to discovering something –
for the ear bone
2.
is the portion that lasts longest
in any of us, man or whale; shaped
like a squat spoon
with a pink scoop where
once, in the lively swimmer’s head,
it joined its two sisters
in the house of hearing,
it was only
two inches long –
and thought: the soul
might be like this –
so hard, so necessary –
3.
yet almost nothing.
(http://www.panhala.net/Archive/Bone.html)

I find Mary Oliver's poems to be so beautiful and comforting in the best of times. Right now I am burying myself in her work. If I can't have wine, I can at least drown my sorrows in beautiful words.

Into the Valley

Life has taken a strange turn of events recently, hence the lack of progress updates here. My father passed away quite unexpectedly on Saturday, August 20th, while on vacation with my mom and my sister and her family. A few days later, my mother had a nasty fall down some stairs and broke her arm and wrist, which requires surgery. I've been home to Michigan to help my mother and releive my sister, who is doing the majority of the caretaking back in Lansing. I'm now back in Minnesota, although I'm planning another trip home for the funeral for my dad.

All this time, of course, the pregnancy continues. On the one hand, it's positive because I'm unable to practice even the smallest amount of self destructive behavior, but on the other hand it is difficult to balance the required self-care with the care that I need to extend to my family and the energy that gets consumed with the grieving process. It's like walking an emotional tight rope.

I feel a bit like a Macy's day parade balloon that has had all but one of my tethers cut…I'm floating above the ground with only the most tenuous of connections to what's happening below. I'm doing my best to be focused and present, but I find my mind wandering in the midst of conversations, and rather than participating I feel much more like an observer watching myself go through the motions (nod, smile, make small comment, nod some more).

Except for when the stabs of grief bubble up to the surface (always unexpected, always uncontrollable), the only thing that seems to pull me back into myself are the various kicks and flutters of the baby. I hope that she inherits some of her grandfather's joyous spirit and appreciation of the beauty that surrounds us at all times, if we only take the time to stop and look. Throughout his life, my father retained an almost child-like ability to rejoice in the world around him…I want to show this little girl how to do the same.