Sunday, April 10, 2011


Morning is the advent of a pure and ill-wrought terror.

The same words from everyone: it will pass.

A minute went by.

I recall something the father of my first (and late) husband said to my chosen brother Tom as we were walking down the steps of the funeral home after the visitation (oh sweet jesus this was only a little more than eight years ago):

"I just got through another minute."

There went one more.

From Mary Oliver:

A small boat flounders in the deep waves, and what's coming next
is coming with its own heave and grace.

I welcome grace, but for this moment, and, I expect, many still to come, there is only the heave.

Your comments are sustaining me. I don't have the energy to respond individually yet but know that I've read them time and again for the light they shine.


  1. Hi neighbor! I'm only a couple blocks away... should you need a dock to tie up to, to fill up the tank for the next passage. (but I'll be gone 1:30-3-ish).

  2. Must be a little like child birth at this point. I remember a nurse telling me, "ride the waves dear, ride the waves; you'll get to shore". Didn't help much at the time. All our well meaning advice is probably like that; not helping much right this minute but we are here and we are listening and we do care.

  3. ride the waves. i like that.

    in a dark time for me, the advice i most remember was, rock with it. just clasp your knees to your chest and rock with it. cry, rage, whimper, laugh bitterly, laugh at the absurdity, sob, sit in silence, breathe. the only way through is through.

    rock with it. and be gentle with yourself.

    sending love.

  4. I appreciate that you keep writing. It means a lot to know that you are there, turning it all over in your head, finding the words to express it. It's good to know that, even in your pain, are present and vital. xxoo

    Now if you'll excuse me, I have to endure yet another televised baseball game with dad....lordy.

  5. as Tara says, it is a comfort to us out here who empathize so helplessly that you are posting. i hope that the writing helps you, too. the mary oliver line is wonderful...the image is unsettling, and yet the boat is still afloat.
    james was just talking with his son, in Seattle, and for some reason i felt like you were closer...i could crawl through the (wireless!) phone line and give you a hug.

  6. Dear T., Angella's right: the only way around it is through. Rocking seems like exactly the right position your body should be in, in order for all those feelings to come out. Yes. Tick. A minute. Tock. Another. It is the only way that time can pass when you are in a horrible, shocking crisis. There are almost no words. Talk to the clock. Swear at it. Time always moves like molasses when your world has smashed. Yes, write when you can, T. Check in with someone so that we don't lose our grip on you, or you on us. xo Melissa

  7. T.
    One minute at a time, one hour at a time, one day at a time. You are a small boat in big waters right now, but you are tethered to many people who care about you. Pull yourself toward that love. You're in my prayers. xoxoxo Eileen

  8. I made a special dinner for you tonight. XO

  9. My thoughts are so often turning to you T Clear. I'd been away from home and the net for a few days, and felt shock and sadness to read your recent posts. As Mary said earlier - kia kaha. May you find strength and grace amidst the awful unexpected heaving storm of these days, these minutes. Pam x

  10. A significant part of the grace is that you are posting, leaving us words to follow. The is simply the heave, not the whole of anything, just one of the pieces. xo