Lessons Along the Scenic Route thru Purgatory

By Lori Schuster

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WITH RUE MY HEART IS LADEN...
05.28.05 (4:11 pm)   [edit]
I love British poets. Not the modern ones, I’m not big on much that is modern. I’m speaking of the ones long deceased. There a quality about them. They are so dreary and don’t feel the need to apologize for it.

I first discovered them when I blindly took an advanced English class my sophomore year of college. I didn’t realize it was an advanced class. A sorority sister talked me into it when she discovered that it was an opportunity to sit next to a boy who I was briefly smitten with. As it turned out, my interest in the boy did not last through Yeats and for the remainder of the semester I struggled to keep my head above water.

Each time the professor asked a question, I would pray that he would call on one of the more enlightened members of the class… one of the brooding, intelligent ones who so obviously read the dictionary while sitting on the toilet. I was a party girl looking for a date… nobody was dying to hear my view of W.H. Auden…or so I thought.

As it was bound to happen, one day the professor called on me. Well aware that I was a fish out of water, he taunted me, waiting--I decided-- for me to fail. Schuster; I remember that he called me Schuster because for some reason it scared the crap out of me… Schuster, what was Housman writing about in this poem?

Stammering and sweating, I said the first thing that came to my mind… "it’s about death". I felt the shame of their indignant looks burning on my neck…stupid sorority girl. I’m sure that the professor was the only person more shocked than I was by my correct answer.

From that day on, I sat up a little straighter. I made an honest effort to understand the thought and emotion behind the words. Sometimes I actually raised my hand; and when all else failed I stuck to my theory that I had a good chance of being correct by answering that it was either about love, or death, or both.

It is so much easier to believe the worst about ourselves.

Anyway, as my writing can never compare to the British poets that I have come to know and love, and as I am feeling a bit dreary myself this Memorial Day weekend… I thought that I would share two of my favorites poems by A.E. Housman. If you want to read something uplifting look up Maya Angelou. If you want a dose of raw emotion reflective of my mood… read on. It is, after all, Memorial Day.

To an Athlete Dying Young
by A. E. Housman (1859-1936)

The time you won your town the race
We chaired you through the market-place;
Man and boy stood cheering by,
And home we brought you shoulder-high.

Today, the road all runners come,
Shoulder-high we bring you home,
And set you at your threshold down,
Townsman of a stiller town.

Smart lad, to slip betimes away
From fields were glory does not stay
And early though the laurel grows
It withers quicker than the rose.

Eyes the shady night has shut
Cannot see the record cut,
And silence sounds no worse than cheers
After earth has stopped the ears:

Now you will not swell the rout
Of lads that wore their honours out,
Runners whom renown outran
And the name died before the man.

So set, before its echoes fade,
The fleet foot on the sill of shade,
And hold to the low lintel up
The still-defended challenge-cup.

And round that early-laurelled head
Will flock to gaze the strengthless dead,
And find unwithered on its curls
The garland briefer than a girl's.



WITH RUE MY HEART IS LADEN

WITH rue my heart is laden
For golden friends I had,
For many a rose-lipt maiden
And many a lightfoot lad.

By brooks too broad for leaping
The lightfoot boys are laid;
The rose-lipt girls are sleeping
In fields where roses fade.
16 Comments
 
The Sound of Music...
05.17.05 (4:12 pm)   [edit]
I didn’t cry yesterday. That’s a good thing, I think.

Actually, it doesn’t happen all that often anyway. It is usually triggered by something…a photo, an object, or a stray thought. Depending on the volatility of the memory, my response can range from a tsunami like wave of emotion where I am clinging for dear life to my coffee cup and a box of kleenex or it comes in a ripple, like wind blowing over a puddle. To this, my response is softly whispering, "Oh, Ali. Oh, Ali."

I guess it’s kind of like being followed by the little black rain cloud…an instability in the atmosphere. Partly sunny with a chance of rain.

I didn’t cry yesterday, but, I did find myself in the grip of a terrible fit of laughter. One of those bottom of your belly, tear-dropping laughs that is generally initiated by something really stupid… but the more you laugh, the harder it is to stop. This happens to my sisters at very inappropriate times. Like during the car crash scenes in driver’s education class or their niece’s dramatic interpretive dance about Christ’s crucifixion.

It happened to me at church when I was in the sixth grade. I was sitting in the front row with my friend when my stomach started growling. We tried to hold back. It started out as a snicker, a giggle, if you will, but, soon enough it erupted into a full blown outburst. Our bodies shook, our noses snorted, and as we tried to gain our composure, little gasps of air escaped and floated up to the pulpit, while a pair of condescending eyes stared down at us from behind thick, black serious preaching- type glasses.

I knew that this couldn’t be good for my heavenly report card. I had already been kicked out of catechism for flirting with Randy Sweet… and swearing. I don’t think that it came as much of a surprise to anyone. I come from a long and proud line of heathens.

Yesterday, I had the luck to be by myself when my fit of laughter over-took me. One of the things that I will miss most about driving back and forth to Michigan is the singing. I love to sing in the car—loud and with the passion of a Diva.

I went through a Sara McLachlan phase and a Carly Simon phase, even an Avril LaVigne phase, but, now for some unexplained reason I am hooked on Fleetwood Mac. This is embarrassing for several reasons, not the least of which is the fact that for the past 13 years, I have refused to listen to Fleetwood Mac because they played Bill Clinton’s "Don’t Stop" theme song at the 1992 convention. Seriously, it pissed me off so badly that if they came on the radio, I changed the station. This was no easy thing. I loved Fleetwood Mac. Many of my best High School memories were accompanied by Fleetwood Mac songs and now all I could imagine was Bill Clinton’s smug, smiling face. They ruined it for me and I couldn’t forgive them.

One day recently on a PBS special, I saw a video of Fleetwood Mac and Stevie Nicks singing "Stand Back" and realized that I missed them. I missed her deep, scratchy voice, and her tough girl energy. I missed singing all of those familiar songs while tossing my hair back and hitting the beat on the steering wheel. Thirteen years is a really long time and I decided that it was time forgive Fleetwood Mac.

Less than a week later, I am driving down the expressway doing 80 mph, practicing percussion on my steering wheel, tossing back my hair and belting out "Gypsy" so loudly that I was sure the cars next to me were checking their radios. This is so much fun! When "The Edge of Seventeen" came on I had forgotten a few lines so on several parts I ended up singing the wrong words by myself and in one blinding flash it became clear…Oh my God, I have the worst voice in the history of independent automobile concerts.

I don’t sound like Stevie Nicks… I sound like… really, really bad.

For some reason, this made me laugh. It made me laugh quite a bit. Tears were pouring out my eyes. I’m not even sure why. I guess that it was the thought of someone seeing my little performance or hearing my off-key bellowing. Maybe it was because I was just so damned bad.

Megan would have taken my IPOD away an hour ago. She won’t even let me hum since she witnessed Ashli and I singing "Total Eclipse of the Heart" with such drama that we almost rear-ended a car that was turning into McDonalds. And Ali… used to get very upset with me because I liked to move my head (bop) to rap music. She had a fear that we would be car-jacked because they (the would-be car-jackers) would see some old white woman (me) mocking the music and want me dead. I explained that I wasn’t mocking… I was legitimately grooving. She still seemed to think that it was worthy of homicide.

Megan came in my room the other day while I was listening (and singing ever so quietly). She looked at me with that disgusted "you’re so odd" teenage look and said, "what’s up with the music"? "The music," I said, "is Fleetwood Mac, you have no taste, and you have just managed to annoy me in five words…now go clean something."

For some reason, children don’t like to see us having fun…especially at the expense of their possible embarrassment.

Meanwhile, back on the highway, I was almost to Michigan. My trip was almost at its end. It felt good to laugh at myself...to laugh in general. The car was strangely quiet and I suddenly got a little melancholy. I tried to listen to the radio but nothing suited my mood. Finally, I turned the dial of the IPOD.

If I can forgive Fleetwood Mac for singing for Bill Clinton… they can certainly forgive me for mutilating their music.

Oh yeah.

And while I tossed back my hair, closed my eyes (very briefly) for drama and belted out the words to "The Chain"--loudly and with the passion of a diva, I’m sure Ali was watching me from on high saying to anyone who would listen…oh my God, she is so embarrassing…doesn’t she know she’s going to get car-jacked?
21 Comments
 
Of Trials and Tribulations...
05.15.05 (8:18 pm)   [edit]
Of Trials…

My goal was to write something a bit more uplifting, but, I find that I can’t. I am walking around with a heaviness in my chest that is with me almost constantly. I cannot sleep and there is a numbness in my nose and eyes because I am always on the verge of tears.

I want it to go away. I want my mind to turn off. My thoughts to cease. I want to turn the corner, listen to the radio, or go to dinner without being reminded that there is a devastation within me so immense that the reverberations will go on for as long as I am breathing.

I so badly want to be happy again. I want Ali back…a do-over. I have things that I need to say and places that I want to go with her. Sometimes in the back of my mind, I still imagine it possible and when the realization finally hits me… she is gone….she is gone… she is gone. It is like running head on into a speeding freight train.

I never believed that Ali would die from cancer. I know that sounds ludicrous and naïve, but it is true, and when it became inevitable, I scrambled, trying to fit everything in—every conversation, every experience, every joy and even every sorrow. But, by the time that I realized it was really going to happen, she was barely able to communicate.

Please, please let me start over.

My heart is crying out, my mind betrays me, and my emotions are all on the surface. Head on into a freight train. If only that were true.

Of Tribulation…

I am jaded. Jaded toward thinking the best and happy endings. Jaded toward God. I don’t think that I’m angry, I don’t feel betrayed. I guess that I am skeptical…and filled with sarcasm. When I read the little blurbs on the signs in front of churches I immediately get defensive. "Life is short, death is sure, sin the cause, Christ the cure".

"All things work together for good". Yadda, yadda, yadda… give me a break.

How is it that I still believe? I still believe that God is good and that He loves me. I believe that He doesn’t want our hearts to break…even though sometimes He does nothing to stop it from happening.

I guess it’s because deep down I believe that God must know something that I don’t or He could never profess His love and still take our children away from us.

I still believe; and ironically, if I am to see Ali again, then I must believe. I guess that is life’s ultimate test. To trust in happy endings when life has dragged you through the mud. To still have faith when faith has let you down.

It is possible that my sarcasm is misplaced. God, after all, never said it would be easy. Perhaps my sarcasm should be directed toward religion; a religion that leads us into believing that all of life’s problems can be solved with a witticism on a sign out front or by quoting a Bible verse and then slipping away. There was a time when I practiced it with great fervor.

Disneyland Christianity… the happiest place on earth.

If I had I sign it would say: Beware. This could be difficult. It could completely suck. If you are seeking equity, look elsewhere. The man over there, he is cruel. He lies, he cheats, he has no conscience. But, he will live to be ninety suffering nothing worse than a skinned knee. Yet, the girl you see in the picture, she lived her life with joy and goodness and died at 17 after battling a cruel and terrible illness.

Perhaps, you will turn 44 and endure heartbreak beyond anything that you could ever imagine; you will beg and plead and fall on your knees crying… please, please let me start over…and your answer will be silence.

Beware. This could be difficult. But, I am God. I am God and I guarantee you nothing. Nothing, except that I know something that you do not and you must trust me.

That is all. Trust me.

If I make it to Heaven then it is because I had to walk through hell on earth to get there. It will be because I still had faith even though my faith seemed to let me down.

To be honest, all of this is of little consolation to me at this moment. It will not bring Ali back. My heart is still heavy with grief and I feel as if the pain may plow me under. Perhaps, it really doesn’t matter to God that I am jaded, sarcastic and barely hanging on. Maybe all He is interested in is that I trust Him in the moment. Maybe it really is all about the journey.

I don’t know what God expects of me right now, but I do know this, if life were always easy, then our faith would be as trite as some catchy phrase on a misleading sign.
18 Comments
 
Home is where the Heart Is...
05.10.05 (11:25 am)   [edit]
I am in the process of moving to Grand Rapids, Michigan where my goal is to begin a career as a food stylist. It is an idea that clicked, when nothing else seemed to. It combines everything that I am interested in and packages it into a job that I not only believe that I’ll do well in… but, will inspire me. It also means that, not only will I be living 1-1/2 hours closer to Craig, but we will be working together as well. This will be a new thing for us— proximity—but I believe that we are up for the challenge. The icing on the cake is that Megan is moving there to attend college.

I’m excited about finding a cute little apartment in an old building downtown. I want to decorate it in a way that there is no question who lives there. I want a sanctuary. A place of my own. I need a place where every corner is not harboring a memory. A place to start over.

As a means to that end, my house is up for sale. It is finished and looks beautiful. The sign is in the yard and the ad is in the paper. It is official. I cannot afford to live there any longer. Boxes are packed and waiting. I am waiting as well, but, in the meantime, I am spending most of my time in Michigan organizing the loft and getting ready to shoot our portfolio.

I came home on Saturday and planted some flowers. I put weed-killer on the lawn…which means that in about 2 days there will be nothing left but dirt. It is the kind of yard that screams…a divorced woman lives here.

I cleaned my car, including the pine needles that have been there since Christmas. The laundry is done, the cabinets are cleaned, I have survived mother’s day and now it is Monday and time to return to Michigan.

My fresh-smelling car is loaded with boxes. I manage to fit in my computer, my IPOD, and a duffle bag with some clothes. CoCo is crying from the window above the drive-way. I take the long way around so that I can drive by the house and assess its curb appeal. A few minutes later, I am still parked in front of the house, but, find myself somewhere else. I continue down Third Street and cut over to Main. For some reason I took a right instead of a left and ended up back in my driveway. Sitting.

I decide to take CoCo outside with me. It’s Iced Tea weather. Sitting on the steps, I look at the freshly mowed yard while CoCo bites my toes through my sandals.. The breeze is warm and blows my hair. It hides the tears which have begun to descend down my cheeks.

It smells like every summer that I can remember being in this house. It smells like the summer when Ali rescued Rudy from the jaws of a Rotweiller only to be bitten herself or the night of Megan’s sweet 16 party when a large white tent took up nearly the entire yard. It smells like the wet dirt in my garden and freshly washed sheets.

There is 140 years of history in this house and I am just a blip on a title search. How many others have shed a tear when they had to walk away from this place? My sadness in leaving is proportional to the joy that I found here. It hurts to constantly be reminded of what I have lost in this house but, it hurts even more to realize what I had here. This will be the last place that I have memories of Ali, Megan and I living together.

When I hand over the key, someone else will walk… or perhaps trample carelessly into the room where my daughter died. They will not know that it is a place of reverence; a place where grief took up permanent residence in the hearts of everyone who passed through the door one dark and chilly night in March. Neither will they hear in the same way that I do, the echoes of laughter, the music of parties, the cars screeching out of the driveway, or the sound of paper ripping at Christmas.

Like a fresh coat of paint on well-worn walls, the slate will be wiped clean.

I know that when I pull away from 622 Third St. for the final time, my heart will grieve. There are things that I am taking away from here that will not fit in a box. I cannot imagine a place that will have impacted me more. I will take the memories of this house with me in the same way that I have taken Ali… crammed into every molecule of my soul. Many years from now, the things that fit in boxes will have long been lost and scattered, but the things stored in our souls will give us something lovely to talk about when we are finally together again.
10 Comments
 

Grace, beauty, humor, strength.
Alison Haley Cloud
Nov. 16, 1987-March 1, 2005