on loss and friendship

Someone important to someone important to me died this week. The deceased served as a role model, mentor, father figure, and best friend to someone who needed him terribly. I mourn his loss, and I am saddened that the state of our own friendship prevents me from being of any use to him in these dark days. He will say he's too busy to grieve, or at least to talk about grieving. He will say "later," his response anytime I want to talk about anything important. And knowing him as well as I do, I will simply say ok. This is how we work. Or don't work.
With Facebook I have somehow become this big discloser--can't sleep? Tell my 400 friends! Having surgery? Show everyone how funny and brave I am, and praise my nurturing husband and pets! Get my feelings hurt? Have them repaired by above-mentioned 400 friends! Need to vent? You guessed it.
But this friend doesn't tell anyone anything. As devout a Christian as he is, I'm not sure he even tells God. Where does it go, all that grief, anger, loneliness? Sometimes I think it goes inside me, even when he hasn't said a word. I am his status page, inside out and unread.

"The most powerful ways that you make a difference are usually the least visible."

(I wrote this tonight on a foster parent friend's Facebook wall). I like it!

Where I'm From, Part 2

(new class, so new version...again, written in the company of wonderful EDU 3540 students!)

Where I’m From 2-28-13

I am from Kennys and Baylises, with enough Rieman to give me big hips and a generous smile.

I am from down at the lake and Central Street, Beaver Island, and the Arch, always yearning for water.

I am from Siamese cats and too many spiders, mourning doves and grackles, and Grandma's calling to tell me she's seen the first robin.

I'm from teachers, readers, and racist Republicans, whose loving roots I trimmed to keep only the good.

I am from nifflies, sugar cookies, overdone roasts, and rolls burned on the bottom from an oven so old, my mom had to guess at the temperature.

I'm from sun-bathing in April and grilling in February, all the while stoically shivering in the Michigan chill.

In my closet are boxes all beaten and tattered, filled with Grandma's letters and Mom's goodbye. Where I'm from is just a beginning, but an integral part of who I soon shall be.

I agree with Eddie Rabbitt...

It’s 6 p.m. and I’m alone at the “cottage” (as we call our teeny tiny house that is a second home in Wisconsin) with my sweet boy Bud, not Buddy. It’s been raining and raining all day, and I cannot tell you how wonderful the sound is. I can hear it on the roof, on the porch as it streams over the plugged-up gutter (poor Joe just HATES that!), and ting- tangeling on the window a.c. I can’t remember the last time I was able to just sit quietly and listen to the rain! It was probably on the front porch at home, most likely with Luna sitting between my feet on the footstool.

I’d like to say the sound brings back memories, but it’s more like sensations…a sense of warmth, of snuggling, of rest. Why do so many people dislike rainy nights, I wonder? Is it loneliness, perhaps a wistful longing for someone to share the night with? Does the rain bring melancholy and thoughts of so many regrets? Or is it just another thing to worry about—did I roll up my windows? Damn, I didn’t clean out the gutters yet! Oh, crap, my newspaper’s out there getting soaked! Geeze, how much more rain will the ground absorb?  Or the more social justice minded: “Oh, those poor people who have nowhere to go!”

And still, here I sit…mellow, with a Mona Lisa smile as I just soak in (pardon the pun) the song of the rain. My heart and my worried mind are eased with its cadence, my sore muscles seem to loosen at its wordless song of peace.