The End of the World As We Know It

     While some were calling yesterday the end of the world, college friends and I had already experienced our abrupt ending in 1988.  December 21 marked the day that Pan Am 103 exploded over Lockerbie, Scotland, killing 35 Syracuse students who were on their way home from a semester abroad.  It was, in a sense, an end of our world.  Our understanding, our outlook, our perspective was permanently altered.  Each year as I acknowledge and celebrate the winter solstice, I do so in remembrance of those who don’t anymore.  The day is marked for me.  

     On December 5, the end of the world came again with the news that my friend Tad had died.  The world was forever changed.  

     Last Friday, the world ended in Newtown, CT.  How does any of us stay the same after a tragedy like that? Something shifts in us that never quite goes back into its original place.

     Each of us has experienced a world-ending moment, a loss that cuts to our core.  How do we carry on?  Somehow we do.  Somehow we do.  Until yesterday I’d thought that death is the most humbling of things, but you know, surviving is the ultimate test.

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     I’ve started meditating.  Each weekday morning, I gather with a handful of colleagues to sit in a dimly lit classroom and focus my breathing for a measly five minutes.  I’ve found the process an interesting one, but I alternate between feeling peaceful and frustrated.  There are mornings I let go of the world around me and just enjoy feeling the breath enter and leave my body.  Other days - most days - I fight back the cascade of sounds, thoughts, worries, and plans that my mind wants me to acknowledge and take care of right now.  I’m told not to judge this constant barrage and my inability to slow it, but it’s hard not to.  It seems like it would be an easy thing to do, to just focus on one thing.  Not so much.

     My beautiful friend Tad died two weeks ago. I still haven’t really processed it, except that every morning since, as I concentrate on my breathing, I think to myself, “I am breathing, and Tad is not.  I’m breathing for both of us.  Tad lives right here with me.”  Yesterday, I added other names of those who’ve gone.  “Today I breathe for Miriam, for Nicole, for Kevin, for Juna.”

     I have been lucky that I’ve lost very few people in my life.  But I’ve made it a point to try to honor those lost loved ones in some way.  I’ve tried to honor Miriam by being fearless with funny, Nicole with my devotion to a higher power, Kevin by being a receptive, loving teacher, Aunt Juna by being generous...  My attempts often fall short, but I do consider Miriam, Nicole, Kevin, Juna and others as I try.

     Now, to honor Tad.  He brought incredible beauty to everything he did. 

(Take a look at the detailing on the wedding cake he made for Mike's and my Cookout Wedding. The two of us were dressed in t-shirts and shorts, so Tad brought the beauty that day, for sure.)

     Problem is, bringing beauty to the world is a serious challenge for me.  I’ve never been much on beauty.  I’ve done perfunctory jobs of wrapping presents, decorating for holidays, dressing myself.  Rarely will someone comment that I’ve made something beautiful.  I’ve had small bursts of inspiration, but they’re usually followed by short-lived effort and lightning-fast concession.

     

     What I love about this challenge, though, is that it will keep Tad in the front of my mind.  He’ll be right here, right where he should be.  I’ll probably swear at him for leaving beauty to this clumsy novice.  I’ll tell him off for shirking his responsibilities.  What a unspeakable loss.

     Honoring each of the people I've lost reminds me that the world will never be the same, but it doesn’t have to be the end.  It can’t be for those of us here.  Still here.  Still present.

     Mike and I often say to each other, “It can all be over in a moment.”  It can.  And it makes the other daily stuff seem so utterly ridiculous.  

     So indulge me this moment to say how incredibly grateful I am that you have spent time reading my words, reflecting and sharing your thoughts with me, and simply being present with me.  I wish you the most joy and love you can wring from this holiday season. May you continue to honor those who have gone before by having the sweetest year yet.