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Bumbles, Bouncing, and Grandpas (all amazing, but a slight departure)
After four days of celebrating, I return to my normal headspace.
My therapist told me that there’s a certain thing that keeps coming back to bite me in the ass. (The problem is, I can’t remember what that thing is now, so it’s going to bite me in the ass again.)
My response when she pointed this out: “Can’t I take the teeth out? Then at least if it’s biting me it doesn’t hurt as much… Like the Bumble from claymation Rudolph! And he ended up being useful.”
(The ferocious abominable snowman Bumble)
(The Bumble after Hermie the misfit dentist elf removes the Bumble’s teeth because he tried to eat the reindeer.)
(Spoiler Alert! The Bumble easily places the treetopper and so shows he’s reformed and earns a place in the Christmastown community.)
The next week she said I was standing on the edge of a fissure: I have exhausted all of my defense mechanisms; everything is beyond my control at this point. It kind of seems like the next step is to walk off the edge and see what happens.
In an attempt at optimism, I quoted Yukon Cornelius: “Didn’t I ever tell you? Bumbles bounce!”
(In proving that the Bumble is harmless without his teeth, both the Bumble and Yukon fall off the cliff - but Bumbles bounce!)
Now that I don’t have school to constantly think about, I think about all the other things that I can’t control. This rapid train of thought quickly fills me with overwhelming, immobilizing exhaustion.
I called my grandpa yesterday to tell him that I am done with school. He is immensely proud of me and of course asked, “So now what?”
And then he said, “You and me are in the same place, Sarah, except you’re at the beginning of your life and I’m at the end of mine. Neither of us knows what we’re doing, and we’re both taking breaks from dating.”
My grandpa is 75. My grandma died 15 months ago. She was his first and only date, and yesterday would have been their 57th wedding anniversary. My grandpa is the catch of his retirement park in Florida. He’s handsome and smart and funny and kind and generous; everyone loves him. He had a lady-friend for a while, but he just isn’t ready to do that again because he’s never loved anyone like that except my grandma. The lady-friend is, of course, not happy.
(My grandpa and I dancing at my grandma’s memorial, Jan. ‘09.)
On the opposite side of the spectrum, I don’t think I’ve ever really been in love, and I don’t think anyone has ever been in love with me. I have certainly cared very much about a few men, and had the relationships lasted longer, I probably would have really loved them. But I can’t even understand that kind of romantic mutual love and care, the kind that I read about in books, the kind that I see between some of my married friends, the kind my grandparents had. It is so far beyond anything I’ve ever experienced.
My dear friend Haley’s grandpa died last night. She blogged beautifully about how meaningful he is to her and shared a video from her wedding in September, in which her grandpa walks her down the aisle, in which there is so much love between Haley and her grandpa, between Haley and her husband Jason, between all their friends, and for life in general.
Jason & Haley from Michael Schwartz on Vimeo.
It made me cry for Haley’s loss; for my own grandpa and his loss; for the fear of losing my grandpa; for that kind of love – for all those different kinds of love; for how I feel like I am falling into the fissure and hoping that I will bounce.
My friend Megan the paper mache genius shared this poem with me a couple years ago when I was feeling loss. I love Megan and I love Rilke. It feels differently appropriate now: The Bumble and the ball, both different upon their return.
Dove that ventured outside – Rainer Maria Rilke
(To Erika, for the festival of praise)
Dove that ventured outside, flying far from the dovecote:
housed and protected again, one with the day, the night,
knows what serenity is, for she has felt her wings
pass through all distance and fear in the course of her wanderings.
The doves that remained at home, never exposed to loss,
innocent and secure, cannot know tenderness;
only the won-back heart can ever be satisfied: free,
through all it has given up, to rejoice in its mastery.
Being arches itself over the vast abyss.
Ah the ball that we dared, that we hurled into infinite space,
doesn’t it fill our hands differently with its return:
heavier by the weight of where it has been.
