Letter to Carolyn

There is no way I could begin to tell you all the thoughts and feelings that have swirled through my mind since I received a phone call one evening last December telling me that you had died. Sattva, my Buddhist online friend whom I met in the E-Sangha, suggested that I could still talk to you and write you letters even though you're dead. It seems like a good idea, but with limitations. You can't answer back. One of our UU ministers said that death is like a disease that renders one unable to respond, or even listen. I am sad that you came down with this disease.

At the UU Fellowship in Auburn, your flower-draped casket occupied the same space where you and I stood, along with other members of your wedding party, almost twenty years before on the day of your marriage. I was in my frilly blue bridesmaid dress and you wore a cascade of white taffeta and chiffon. You were radiant on that warm sunny June afternoon, without a trace of the undercurrent of dark depression that surfaced from time to time, fracturing your fragile inner world. Still, I never dreamed that you would someday become completely engulfed in a darkness so black that you believed the sun would never shine again.

Your funeral, on that cold December day, was a blur of fragrant pastel floral arrangements, classical music pieces you loved streaming softly from the piano, your friend Tom reciting a poem he had written for you, and a Christian scripture being read from a leather-bound Bible. In a fog I heard someone playing a bluegrass tune on a mandolin, the UU minister speaking at the podium, and Uncle Jim and Aunt Gale singing “Spirit of Life” from their second row seats behind me. Through a haze I could see the your photographs, both as a girl and as a woman, that I had placed carefully on the altar table on either side of the chalice.

When the sleek white hearse backed up to the church, to carry you on your final journey here on earth, it seemed unreal, like a scene from a sad movie. Was all this really happening around me? Jack and I were instructed to pull our vehicle in line for the cemetery procession. I rolled down the window on the passenger side. Your friends from the library leaned in, hugging me one after another, all offering comforting words. Were you watching from above, or from some other place? Were you watching at all, or are you just simply gone now? I can’t quite wrap my mind around the concept of your death. None of it seems to make sense.

I have never lived on this earth without a sister. You have always been there, throughout my entire life, as you were the firstborn. Now I’ve entered a new phase, where you are no longer a part of my life. Who will be my sister now? Herman Hesse wrote that the gift of despair makes it possible for us to start a new life. Sadly and relucantly, I am starting over without you. Losing you makes me think about reorganizing my priorities and values. Should I do something different? Should I quit my job and go live for awhile in an ashram in India? The idea has potential. Our parents are dead, and I have no other siblings. I have few family members left to keep me rooted in the South. I have Jack, and he would gladly travel with me.

Silver strands have started appearing all throughout my hair. You and I will never be little old ladies together in our golden years, and that makes me sad. I am also sad that you didn't live to enjoy your retirement, after 25 years at the library. It was a fabulous season for azaleas this year. Our front lawn was awash in lavender, deep pink, and pure white blossoms for most of February, like a scene from a watercolor painting. I sure wish you had been here to see it.

Newlywed Notes

Jack and I have been married almost a week now. I expected to feel different after we got our marriage license and said our vows, even though we have been completely committed to each other for more than three years. I can’t really articulate any particular way in which I thought being married would feel different from our unwedded life.

We spent this afternoon touring the Harn Museum of Art at the University of Florida, visiting Rodin sculptures, a Monet painting, a wonderful piece by my favorite artist Georgia O’Keeffe, some Andy Warhol silkscreens, and a photograph of a craggy-faced Abraham Lincoln taken in 1864. We stopped for a moment to snuggle on a sofa in an alcove at the museum. I asked Jack if he feels “married”. My fingers lightly brushed the heavy gold ring on his left hand. He said yes, he does feel married. I replied that I don’t feel any different than I did before our wedding. Jack said that’s okay.

We also saw some wonderful Asian Ming Dynasty vases today at the Harn. As we looked at the exhibit, a uniformed docent walked by, and I commented to her that I wished I had lived during the Ming Dynasty, because their artwork was so impressive. She said that women weren’t treated very well during those times. I said that may be true but at least they had beautiful vases. She frowned and hurried away, not appreciating my humor.

Earlier today, I took our 14-year old tabby to the All Cats Clinic for a follow-up appointment. She was recently treated for a serious kidney infection from which she fortunately recovered, in spite of her advanced age. As I sat with her in the waiting room, a woman came in with a cat in a carrier, and told the receptionist that she had come to have her cat put down. The receptionist asked her to have a seat. As we waited, a faint frail mew came from the carrier, and the woman whispered softly to her dying cat,“It’s okay, I’m here, I’m here.”

For a minute, I felt overwhelming sorrow for the woman and her pet. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and began to meditate. As my mind became quiet, I realized how fortunate the kitty was to have a caring human to ease her suffering and be there with her until the end. I smiled at the woman. She smiled back, a little sadly.

A few days before our wedding, my aunt in Kentucky sent me an email saying that my uncle had just been diagnosed with cancer and they would not be able to attend the wedding. He is scheduled to have surgery next week. I was disappointed that they weren’t able to make it to our wedding, but I am optimistic about his recovery. Life has its perpetual cycles of ups and downs, and everything is impermanent. The only thing that is permanent is change. During our little honeymoon at the beach in St. Augustine, I bought my aunt and uncle some books I know they will enjoy – a history of St. Augustine for my uncle and a cookbook for my aunt. I also emailed them a wedding portrait of Jack and me, in an attempt to make the best of the situation. I’m sure they would have rather been at our wedding than at the hospital.

I have experienced my share of joys and sorrows. My only sister died unexpectedly only two months ago, just before Christmas, and now my uncle has cancer. Our cat was very sick, but survived her illness. For Jack and me, all is well in our world. When we were driving away from the Unitarian Universalist church after our wedding ceremony, mylar balloons and “Just Married” flags flapping in the breeze, I told Jack that it was the happiest day of my life. I thoroughly enjoyed the celebration of our marriage that morning, but in my heart I had already felt for quite some time that Jack and I were already married. Our ceremony affirmed the way we already felt about each other, rather than making anything different.

The future may once again bring us times that are not auspicious, but for right now, in the present moment, Jack and I are happy. The present moment is the whole world. We ate lunch at the museum’s outdoor café, near a beautiful pond filled with papyrus reeds and lotus blossoms, in the warm sunshine. Life is good, we are newlyweds, and this is our time to be happy.

(Jack and Shelby were married on Febuary 10, 2008)