“Last night I dreamt that I grew wings. I found a place where they could hear me when I sing.”
Stan Goff observes that we mark the passage of time with clocks, watches, and oven timers. We watch patiently as the time evolves in the corner of our computer screens. Managing time is easy for most of us. We can learn how to acquire a new skill efficiently in any given day, or to sauté the perfect ramps in under two minutes. However, no one ever teaches us how to mark and process the passing of life, and of death: the most illusive measure of time. This sneaks up on us, and only going through our own physical, psychological, and emotional losses can our brains and figurative hearts learn to accept death and even learn from it.
Four years ago, on this day, my mother passed away after surviving with cancer for 5 years. I was twenty when this chapter began. I can’t remember the exact day that we found out about her diagnosis, but I suppose those types of details don’t matter so much. I do remember the emotions, the frustration, the immaturity of my reaction, and most of all the disbelief. Not disbelief in the sense that I discounted the evidence of cancer, but rather a feeling of immortalism for my mom. I also remember the phone call: “Marty, it’s your sister.” I remember the rope in my stomach. John Updike would describe it like a rope that keeps twisting; it develops a kink; then a loop leaps into it, like when Rabbit found out about his daughter’s death. This loop that resided in my own body kept me still – emotionally and physically – for years, trying to understand what this new surreal reality meant. She had cancer, fine. But, an angel like her wasn’t going anywhere and she surely wasn’t going to die. She was the Blarney stone in our family, weathering all storms to establish a fine patina.
At the time of her diagnosis I thought of a saying similar to her own: “The best is for the best.” But, I was inclined to think “the best can be damned.” The immaturity I mentioned above refers to my understanding of the concept of life and death, something that we struggle with eternally I suppose. I mean, there I was – 20 years old – on my girlfriend’s Victorian porch sipping a cold beer on a sunny July afternoon. Nothing could dent my life, which up until that point was relatively carefree. At that serene moment, my mother was an amazing figure in my life; a beacon of love and unyielding support. I was, as my sisters described me: “the prince,” the star in her eye. I knew it and took full advantage; confiding when I needed to, defying when mischievous, while opening when feeling proud. The youngest boy in an Irish family dominated by strong women, I wanted independence, so I ducked the title of mom’s boy while silently basking in it. Only later in life did I realize how lucky I was to have been born into that privilege. My admiration for her was probably masked by my seemingly independent desire to be blown by the winds of each moment, always striving to carve my own path. The only reason I caught that wind was because she had the amazing wings that shielded the strongest gusts. A dear friend described my mother with this word: wings.
With each year that passed in her sickness, I grew more aware of the summit we needed to cross. For me, the real moment came while I was fighting to keep afloat in graduate school while she suffered in her bed. This is when I realized that her book was about to close. It was Oscar night, 2005. I caught a late flight back to Syracuse, which allowed me extra time at my mother’s side in the hospital. We watched the pre-show and as stardom strutted the red carpet, I put an architecture book in my bag on my way out. My mom looked up at me. When she hadn’t said much all day, her whisper of “I’m so proud of you” rattled my nerves and independence. I held back my tears, because it is my way. They’ve been welling-up ever since.
A bitter melody, turning our orbit around.
On May 2nd, 2005, she passed away. At the moment she left us three tears rolled down her right cheek as she stared into our eyes; emotions that she hadn’t displayed in weeks. She was closing her book and passing the lessons onto her reader – to us. Here, I had another moment, though it was more calming this time. The tears came less grudgingly, in steady supply and I knew that she had just passed me, my sisters, and my father her wings. The place I found was her. It was in her story as a woman that I learned.
As I grew older I respected her beauty more and more. She was protective, open, understanding, and compassionate. Her life and persona were humble and in that quietness was inherent, center stage beauty. She taught me how to live, how to learn, to be patient, how to love, and how to give. Of course I continue to battle with each of these, but I do strive to find her endless grace and elegance in my own life. One of the most remarkable things about this story is that her lessons were learned through listening and watching an inspired and beautiful life. Well, how often can we actually say that we’ve learned from someone who truly lives her lessons? I will never fill the void of this woman in my life, and would never want to. I can only hope to have lasting, unconditional love – as much as she had – for I’ve slowly learned that the true mark of a man is how much he can love, not how much he can be loved.
So, now I continue to learn and to process this new clock of mine. Someone gave me that Stan Goff article I referred to, with the footnote to read ‘only if you have the time.’ We have nothing but time in life [before it runs out], so I read it over and over again. I’ve realized that each day is just a tiny moment on a really long timeline. Some of us stay longer on this line than others, but it shouldn’t matter because in some ways this life is all just so temporary. I think that we all live alone, in solitude, until we die but should never really act like it. A friend wrote me today and said that I’m lucky to have such loving people around me. That much I can claim, and so, I smiled when I was reminded. I’m also reminded today that we all have these amazing lives. If we have something to fight for and it’s larger than us as individuals then we should fight for it before we do die; alone again. Like the white dogwoods on my block, our lives can always just bloom because we can learn from the people we care about, and we can always look forward to new moments if we let go of our fears, allow ourselves to be affected, and as such, continue to grow while really living.
I’ve begun to digest my mom’s lessons and only now comprehend that she’s not physically here any longer, but her spirit remains in those wings.
so, we just started rolling in the park this weekend and it was pretty amazing to get back on the seat. we took the photo after our ride on saturday with another brooklyn cycling mate. we’re both super psyched to get on the open road soon – planning some long rides in westchester, vermont, and a century or metric in the north fork wine country of long island!
