Boys and Butterflies

Jason and Gabe near McWay Falls

two Monarch Butterflies posing near Pacific Grove

shell

Her death destroyed the cell walls that held me;
that phospholipid bilayer was gone,
anything could travel through me or out.
Vulnerable and skinless, I wanted
to climb into a shell and disappear.

Eventually I realized I'd lost
my center, becoming the emptiness
I'd searched for: dry husk of what was, dead shell
on the earth below, a spiral chamber
of memories holding stardust of her.

The Ocean

Feel the power of the ocean
and draw strength from it.

on a bench near Cook's Chasm, Oregon

The undercurrent is still very strong when the dates of the month align with the days of the week when Katie died. Several phone conversations with her on Sunday the 18th. On Monday the 19th she was last seen alive. On Wednesday the 21st the phone call that she was missing. On Thursday the 22nd her body was found in a stream.

Monarch Butterflies

For three years I've wanted to see thousands of Monarch Butterflies gathered together in one magical place, and now I finally have!! My sons (Jason and Gabe) and I drove to Pacific Grove last Friday, and got out of the car at our motel to see hundreds of Monarchs randomly fluttering and gliding through the air. Many more were hanging in clusters from tree branches with their wings folded up, muted side showing. I walked through the grove, sat on the benches, and sat on the porch just watching them and marveling at them.

Butterflies are transformational symbols, as they go through metamorphosis from caterpillar to chrysalis to butterfly. These Monarchs had migrated from as far north as Washington and as far east as the Rocky Mountains all the way to the central coast of California to stay the winter. But they were not the same butterflies that had left last spring, they were the great-grandchildren of the butterflies that left Pacific Grove. It was interesting to wonder how they could find their way back to a place they'd never been before. Also, the generation that makes the great migration is a special because it lives for 8 months. The other 3 generations live only 4 to 6 weeks each.

Maybe I'm the 8 month generation, stuck here for years without Katie. And was Katie the 4 to 6 week generation? Can I begin see her life as complete as it is? Or will I just keep missing her?

Across the path from our porch was a fenced woods where deer came to browse in the morning and evenings. My sons laughed at me for talking to the deer, the older one asking "Mom, do you think they're going to come running over for a scratch like a dog?" No, I don't, but it just felt right to talk to them, they looked like they were listening, and they were beautiful.

Swan Stories

Tundra Swan History Tour

Yuan Xueshun - a Savior of Swans

SIDDHARTHA AND THE SWAN

The Buddha as a swan king

Katie's swan

Katie called me on a Wednesday afternoon and said "Mom, there's this big white bird and I don't know what it is! I ran back to my dorm and got my camera and found some batteries for it, and when I got back, it was still there! What is it?"

I laughed and told her I'd have to get off the phone to look at the pictures, as we had a dial up connection. Her email was labeled: big white bird! And the three pictures above were labeled: big bird, duck thing, and goose or swan or something. I called her back and told her it was a swan.

She said "Oh wow, I've never seen a swan before!" I said yes you have, don't you remember the swans in the pond in front of the castle at Disneyland? And she said, "Oh mom, that place is so surreal, I would have never thought those were real birds!"

The email was dated Wednesday, April 14, 2004 at 2:31.

The Agony of Grief

Grief is a tidal wave that overtakes you, smashes down upon you with unimaginable force, sweeps you up into its darkness, where you tumble and crash against unidentifiable surfaces, only to be thrown out on an unknown beach, bruised, reshaped.

Grief means not being able to read more than two sentences at a time. It is walking into rooms with intention that suddenly vanishes.

Grief is three o'clock in the morning sweats that won't stop. It is dreadful Sundays, Mondays that are no better. It makes you look for a face in the crowd, knowing full well the face we want cannot be found in that crowd.

Grief is utter aloneness that razes the rational mind and makes room for the phantasmagoric. It makes you suddenly get up and leave in the middle of a meeting, without saying a word.

Grief makes what others think of you moot. It shears away the masks of normal life and forces brutal honesty out of your mouth before propriety can stop you. It shoves away friends, scares away so-called friends, and rewrites address books for you.

Grief makes you laugh at people who cry over spilled milk, right to their faces. It tells the world that you are untouchable at the very moment when touch is the only contact that might reach you. It makes lepers out of upstanding citizens.

Grief discriminates against no one. It kills. Maims. And cripples. It is the ashes from which the phoenix rises, and the mettle of rebirth. It returns life to the living dead. It teaches that there is nothing absolutely true or untrue. It assures the living that we know nothing for certain. It humbles. It shrouds. It blackens. It enlightens.

Grief will make a new person out of you, if it doesn't kill you in the making.

— Stephanie Ericsson Companion Through the Darkness: Inner Dialogues on Grief

aftershock

Last Sunday night a huge wave of grief knocked me down and carried me out to sea. Grief with out words that pulled me deep under, churning and visionless. I finally fell asleep, but woke up Monday morning sobbing, took a shower and got ready for work, still crying. I made it through the week, and was very present for my students. And then yesterday I hibernated and couldn't even concentrate enough to read. Something was working its way to the surface, and today I finally named it.

Five years ago, so long ago, so recent, Katie went to work with me during the month of January. Her college was on the semester system, so she was home most of that month, and she chose to commute with me 45 minutes each way to Willows. A really long day. She did all of my results testing and helped another teacher with hers. She made copies of the little phonics readers that went with our reading program and folded and stapled them and wrote each child's name on them, one for every week through the rest of the school year. She read to kids and she listened to kids read. She played her clarinet for them and watched them paint and ate lunch with me.

She spent all morning with my kindergarten class and the afternoon with my reading intervention groups, first and second and third graders. What a gift she was to me. She should have been sleeping in and hanging out with friends and watching movies, but she wanted to spend time with me. One morning she didn't wake up, and I thought it would be good to let her sleep in. She called me while I was driving to school and was so annoyed with me that I hadn't woken her up.

What a gift she gave me, those memories. It was only my second year of teaching, and I think she wanted to see me be successful, to help me be successful. And I miss my beautiful girl so much. She was amazing.

the end of gravity

When my daughter died
gravity ceased to exist,
if I didn’t hold tightly
I’d be flung to the sky—
blue to indigo to black
and join her with the stars.

For my sons I held on;
a free climber, clinging
to the sheer rock face
my reality has become,
desperately trying to keep them safe
knowing I had somehow failed her.

A small woman’s body
lying across a small stream
at the bottom of a hill.
How did she leave Earth without me
alone
so far away

Lisa Palmer
2005

Ascension

And if I go

While you're still here...

know that I live on

vibrating to a different measure

behind a veil you can't see through.

You will not see me,

so you must have faith.

I wait for the time that we can

soar together again

both aware of each other.

Until then, live life to its fullest!

When you need me, just whisper

my name in your heart...

I will be there.

by Colleen Cora Hitchcock

Poem by Emily Dickinson

SHE died,--this was the way she died,
And when her breath was done,
Took up her simple wardrobe
And started for the sun.

Her little figure at the gate
The angels must have spied,
Since I could never find her
Upon the mortal side.

by Emily Dickinson

This poem leaves out the details of her death, just like we don't know the details of Katie's death. Our nightmare began with a phone call at 7 on a Wednesday evening, then driving 3 hours to SFO, running through the airport to the gate near the end, flying all night to Boston, then driving to Wellesley. They told me they found her a few minutes after I arrived, and that she was dead.
I didn't know there was anything wrong with her, and then I didn't get there in time to save her. My nightmares have never ended...I still search for her and I never get there in time. I wish I could have a dream more like this poem, that's she's okay, that the angels are with her.

i carry your heart with me

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
i fear
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart
i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

ee cummings

One of the things Katie like to draw as a little girl were hearts, all different colors of hearts floating all over the paper. When she got older, Katie used to sign her letters with " heart always, Katie." I think If I ever get a tattoo for her, it'll say just that. This beautiful poem helps me to think of carrying Katie with me always, that she'll always be a part of me. I will always carry her heart in my heart.

My friend Kathy noticed me looking at this poem on a glass wall hanging and then she surprised me with it for Christmas! Love is all around.

"The Myth of Getting Over It"

by Steven Kalas

When our first child is born, a loud voice says,
"Runners, take your marks!" We hear the
starting gun and the race begins. It's a race we
must win at all cost. We have to win. The competition
is called "I'll race you to the grave." I'm
currently racing three sons. I really want to
win.

Not everyone wins.

I'm soon going on stage to speak before a
crowd of parents and loved ones impacted by
the death of a child. My address is titled, "The
Myth of Getting Over it." It's my attempt to answer
the driving questions of grieving parents:
When will I get over this? How do I get over
this?

You don't get over it. Getting over it is
an inappropriate goal. An unreasonable hope.
The loss of a child changes you. It changes
your marriage. It changes the way birds sing.
It changes the way the sun rises and sets. You
are forever different.

You don't want to get over it. Don't act
surprised. As awful a burden as grief is,
you know intuitively that it matters, that it
is profoundly important to be grieving.
Your grief plays a crucial part in staying
connected to your child's life. To give up
your grief would mean losing your child yet
again. If I had the power to take your grief
away, you'd fight me to keep it. Your grief
is awful, but it is also holy. And somewhere
inside you, you know that.

The goal is not to get over it. The goal is to get on with it.

Profound grief is like being in a stage play
wherein suddenly the stagehands push a
huge grand piano into the middle of the
set. The piano paralyzes the play. It dominates
the stage. No matter where you
move, it impedes your sight lines, your
blocking, your ability to interact with the
other players. You keep banging into it,
surprised each time that it's still there. It
takes all your concentration to work
around it, this at a time when you have little
ability or desire to concentrate on anything.

The piano changes everything. The entire
play must be rewritten around it.

But over time the piano is pushed to stage left.
Then to upper stage left. You are the playwright,
And slowly, surely, you begin to find
the impetus and wherewithal to stop reacting
to the intrusive piano. Instead, you engage
it. Instead of writing every scene
around the piano, you begin to write the
piano into each scene, into the story.

You learn to play that piano. You're surprised
to find that you want to play, that it's meaningful,
even peaceful to play it.

This was written by a counselor that hadn't experienced the death of a child. Some people 'get it', some people don't. Even someone that has experienced the death of a child may not understand your grief, as each child and each loss is unique. Some people project the image of their experience onto you, and if it doesn't fit, then they let you know that you're not doing it right. There is no good way for a child to die, no good age for a child to die. Be with people that affirm you and sustain you. Talk about your child with the people that love you. Talk to your child and include her in your family.

Broken

I see fragments of my life
shards like lenses
views of memories

Knealing down I gather pieces
while my hands bleed painlessly
and my soul screams out

There is no one to call to
blood flows over sharp edges
I don't know what to do

Who will say your name
when I'm gone
Who will call out to you
until you come home
I will always love you
I wish that was enough
Too soon you were gone
from my life

Lisa Palmer
2008

Frangrant Mountain

weaving memories

You and Kelly were the first to the top of Mt. Lassen,
running on ahead to beat everyone there
exuberantly calling me, sharing where you were
laughing about it all

Then you were the first to die, far from fragrant mountain
alone, without me holding you
didn't give me a chance to help you
just silently passed your pain onto me

Kathy and I hiked to Bumpass Hell in August
fields of lupines scenting the air
hikers with big smiles and muddy cheeks passing us on the trail
gorgeous views and bluest sky…

We smelled sulphur, then saw an aqua pool
mudpots and boiling springs and fumeroles
then painted our faces with volcanic mud and grinned
laughing at the silliness of it all as we walked

So Katie, how's the view?
Are you on the fragrant mountain?
I went there yesterday and thought of you
running on ahead...

Lisa Palmer
2007

Quote by Dietrich Bonhoeffer

Nothing can fill the gap when we are away from those we love,

and it would be wrong to try and find anything. We must simply

hold out and win through. That sounds very hard at first, but at

the same time, it is a great consolation, since leaving the gap

unfilled preserves the bonds between us. It is nonsense to say

that God fills the gap. He does not fill it, but keeps it empty so

that our communion with another maybe kept alive, even at

the cost of pain.

~Dietrich Bonhoeffer

Katie's bookmarks were waiting for me

Yesterday I found a book of poems that we kept on an end table at our old house, and I settled by the fireplace to read it: American's Favorite Poems edited by Robert Pinsky. I noticed a stiff card marking a spot near the back, and when I turned to it I was surprised to find a postcard addressed to Katie for an upcoming college visist on February 18, 2002. She would've been a junior in high school, and this would have been fairly soon after September 11, 2001. The poem it marks is by Edna St. Vincent Millay.

Dirge Without Music

I am not resigned to the shutting away of loving hearts in the hard ground.
So it is, and so it will be, for so it has been, time out of mind:
Into the darkness they go, the wise and the lovely. Crowned
With lillies and with Laurel they go; but I am not resigned.

Lovers and thinkers, into the earth with you.
Be one with the dull, the indiscriminate dust.
A fragment of what you felt, of what you knew,
A formula, a phrase remains,--but the best is lost.

The answers quick and keen, the honest look, the laughter, the love,--
They are gone. They are gone to feed the roses. Elegant and curled
Is the blossom. Fragrant is the blossom. I know. But I do not approve.
More precious was the light in your eyes than all the roses in the world.

Down, down, down into the darkness of the grave
Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind;
Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave.
I know. But I do not approve. And I am not resigned.

more of Katie's bookmarks

Katie had a habbit of tearing the edges and corners off her school papers to make thin bookmarks that she tucked deeply into the binding of books. The next poem she marked was by Mary Oliver:

The Summer Day

Who made the world?
Who made the swan and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper I mean--
the one who has flug herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down--
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneal down into the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?

Two more poems are marked with her slender torn bookmarks, and maybe sometime I'll type them here as well. But the important thing was finding this small connection with Katie. She may have been choosing poems for an assignment for Mr. Craig, or she may have been marking poems she enjoyed. But it's these little connections with her that are so important now; they're all I have left.

Quote by Molly Fumia

Rest assured that in her dying, in her flight

through darkness towrds a new light, she

held you in her arms and carried your closeness

with her. And when she arrived at God, your image

was imprinted on her joy filled soul.

~Molly Fumia from Safe Passage

I keep a picture of Katie tucked in Molly Fumia's Safe Passage marking this quote. It's a snapshot my dad took on Katie's graduation night from high school, and she's in her red gown without her cap and has a very relaxed smile.
I've read this piece over and over for comfort. I hate thinking of her dying alone, so the thought that she carried me with her is comforting. It's my hope, my prayer.

waking mosaic of thoughts

Holding the World Together
holding the world, together

“It’s 1 o’clock, it’s 1 o’clock mom,”
he sounds alarmed, and I try
to wake-up immediately, reaching
through the haze of sleep, finding
only my own confusion. “I
don’t know what that means,”
I call back, over and over,
but there’s no response. Answers
desperately searched for, yet
seldom found. The pieces
to the puzzle are like snowflakes,
four years old, their unique clues
to the whole long ago melted,
soaking us with a lifetime of tears
before disappearing. Leaving me
with a longing so profound that everything else
is in danger of being obliterated.
A life full of smashed dreams whose pieces
I struggle to put back together.

I look at the orangutan in the corner holding
a single piece. Quickly he pops it into his mouth
and stares back at me. Panic, frustration, and
exhaustion melt into despair. I stare
at all the brokenness and understand
that it will never be what it once was. There are
no adequate answers to this riddle no matter
how I struggle with it. I can’t solve
the equation of why you chose to die
so I sob and give up. The paper isn’t blank,
I’ve scratched and scrambled through
every possibility, but there is no peace.
I pick up a few pieces and begin arranging
them in a pleasing way. They don’t fit,
but I’m trying something new; building
myself from brokenness I shape
a new life, bit by bit.
mosaic

Lisa Palmer
January 1, 2009