Marriage is

Marriage has been surprising.

It has been surprisingly wonderful and surprisingly difficult. Everyone tells you that it is hard, and it is. It is one of the hardest things I've ever done. I truly believe that each day that passes is a great accomplishment. It is a choice that you make--first in front of your fiance', and then your family and friends, and then, each and every day, without fanfare, with yourself. There are so many wonderful things about sharing a life with another, but there are a million, unpredictable little things that can go wrong. I wonder how marriages survive infidelity or the death of children, when at times it seems mine will not survive the "leftover wars" or a discussion of who will clean the kitchen.

Of course I'm being dramatic; we are not, and have not deliberated whether or not our marriage will last, because that is not an option for us. But truly, each day is a choice. Not just choosing to be married, but choosing to be a good spouse, and choosing to accept the other for who he or she is, truly. Within each day are countless choices to be made over the little things, from deciding whether or not to be mad over the annoying things that person does, deciding whether or not to be positive and supportive, choosing whether or not to do the hard thing and talk about what is wrong.

I promise you, dear readers, that talking is the best option. In a marriage, the one thing you can count on is that the other loves you. Your spouse chose you, and continues to choose you, and in talking through your problems you will probably be reminded of why you both bothered to choose each other anyway. Because you're in love, and when you are, there is no other choice.

Legacy

I have been asked to write many things in my life.
Recommendation letters.
Resumes.
Poetry.
Research papers.
Project descriptions.
Complaint letters.
Personal statements.

But never a eulogy.
I'm not sure I'd even really heard a proper eulogy. When my grandmother asked me to write a eulogy for my grandfather, the brave facade I had kept up in her presence came tumbling down. Little did I know that in 24 hours I would be at his bedside, and he would be soon to leave this world. When she asked me, I was taken aback. I was sidelined. I certainly hadn't thought his cancer had gotten that bad. I thought I had time. I had bought him a Christmas present.

I was silent.
She asked, "Korey, will you? Will you write something? You don't have to."

"I will" I replied, "but I don't want to have to" I said, and I broke down. I sobbed. And the next day I drove to their house nervously, wondering what I would see when I got there. 48 hours later, in my living room with its bare Christmas tree (there was no joy in this house) and my dog, and my sweats, I sat down with my laptop and started to write. I made an outline. Yes, an outline. Because I am, and will always be, an English major. I wrote. The words came easily, and I cried as I went along, happy to cry, because I was alone, and because I thought that writing out these feelings and crying over them might cauterize them, and allow me to mourn each thought and then let it go.

When the day came, I had read this eulogy many times, until it no longer made me cry and I could speak it clearly. I dressed in black, and drove to the cemetery, and I smiled. The day was turning out beautifully and I was happy for that. When the reverend asked me up to the podium, I lost it. The little girl inside me screamed, "I don't want to! I don't want this to be happening!" but the grown up cleared her throat and told herself that no amount of screaming would help, he was gone, and I was eulogizing him.

What an honor. What a privilege. What a responsibility.

I hope I did him justice.

Rest in peace, Len.

What Sarah Said

I have yet to let this sink in and to compose my thoughts, but I had to write.

Tonight I said goodbye to my grandfather. We cut his Livestrong t-shirt in half down the back and placed it on his thin arms and over his bony shoulders in the hospital bed in his living room. As the scissors sliced through the bright yellow fabric, I knew there was no going back.

My grandmother wanted him in blue, to match his eyes. But she planned on putting him in the Livestrong shirt when it came to be the end, and so it did, and so we did.

I held his hand, and I prayed over him, through my tears, sobbing all the while. The only words that escaped my lips were prayers of thanks.

"Thank you, Lord, for giving us Len. Thank you for letting us be a part of his life. Thank you for sending him to my grandmother, and for the wonderful times they had. Thank you for sending me this man who loved me, even though he didn't have to. Thank you for letting his family share him with us so openly. Thank you for allowing us the honor of being at his bedside at this precious moment."

I cried for hours, until my ears were bleary and my throat raw. I cried noisily over a little blue book called "And then you were gone" telling us the signs of impending death, and ending with a poem, of death, and its being like a ship, which is sailing away from you, and then it is gone. But the ship is still somewhere, just not with you, and someone waits for it with open arms on the other end. 

My head aches, and my heart hurts, and I am getting into the bath that awaits me. It is after midnight, and the day of my grandfather's death is done. But the pain is only beginning.

I drove home listening to "What Sarah Said" by Death Cab, for these words, which had been ringing in my ears all day: "Love is watching someone die."

Something beautiful

I just wanted to share something that I thought was beautiful.

Last night, my grandma and my mom left the hospital to change and get some dinner after putting my grandpa to bed. They washed his face and hands and helped him into his pajamas, and then they watched as he fell asleep and they left. My grandma got a phone call shortly afterward from my grandpa's daughter, asking if his ex-wife could visit. Len, my grandfather, was married to his ex-wife for twenty years.
"Of course" my grandmother answered, and after hanging up the phone she turned to my mother.
"You know, she probably thinks I got the short end of the stick, but I feel bad for her."
"Why?" my mother asked, as would I, thinking of the twenty years his previous wife had, and the meager nine my grandmother has had with him, with four and a half of those spent caring for him as a cancer patient.
"Because I got to spend his final years with him."


She got his final, precious moments, and as sad as it will be to say goodbye, she will have the honor of having held his hand.

Am I broken?

Are we ever whole?

We, as a mass, us humans, with our weak bodies, but bodies capable of healing, do we have minds that heal? Can we ever heal our souls? Are we, once broken, never whole?

I am finding it difficult to sit here today, pretending as though the project I work on is the center of my existence. It is not. I have so much more I could be doing, so much more that matters. Sometimes you are so clearly called away, the sound is deafening. And yet, my responsibility to this place keeps me in my chair. I must work. I must get a check. I must go on. But today, oh just today, why must I be here? My family needs me.

Is it coincidental that as our country falls to pieces, so do all of our lives? Or is it this time in my life? Should I expect that, due to my age, it is inevitable that the people I love will start to grow frail, and that there will come a day when I am told their journey has come to and end? Should I have seen it coming? Probably. But did I? No. I hear the words "hospice" and "little time" and I think "when did we get to this point?" Where was I? Did I miss it? Was I not paying attention?

Now I sit here, trying to focus on the In Design formatting on my desktop and the stacks of phone calls I need to make, and the projects that must be found and written about, and yet I can barely see the monitor through my tears.

And I just don't care. There are some things more important, more sacred than this. I know that.

East of Eden

It has been suggested that I blog about the reason for my title, and so I shall.

East of Eden is, first and foremost-easily-recognizably my favorite novel. If you would like my reasons why, you'll have to ask (set aside some time).

I also chose it for a far more complicated reason. In my worldview, which is specific to my life experiences and point of view, East of Eden symbolizes my position in life right now.

My point of view was forever changed in one semester during which I took an entire class on Paradise Lost by John Milton, in its original language. I deciphered it, with increasing speed as I went along (the initial pages were incredibly laborious, and I had been known to spend over an hour on one page). The masterpiece is the story of the fall of man, but it is told in a way that is incredibly groundbreaking to have been written when it was (1667 to be exact). John Milton wrote the story beginning with the angels being cast from Heaven and falling into Hell, and his perspective, as all of ours are, was deeply tinged with his own life experiences. Having recently been jailed for his association with Oliver Cromwell, Milton wrote from the confines of a prison, while his own prison walls began to close in on him, as he was becoming blind. In addition, his disappointment at having backed a regime or movement that was overthrown and dismissed colors the travails of the outcast angels fighting to make a place for themselves in a Heaven that they thought was unfair. Satan is the hero in this epic poem, and Milton associates with him more than he does any other character. Milton's view is that free will and the will of God at times contradict one another, and conflicts arise.

Reading this poem is no less than a profoundly impacting life experience. I cried, I laughed, I felt lost and I experienced triumph unlike any I'd every known. It has colored my experiences ever since, and enhanced my reading of East of Eden as well.

The experience of living East of Eden, in my mind, is similar to the experience that Milton's Satan had living right outside of the Garden of Eden, looking in on Paradise and having not a single hope of experiencing happiness there. While that may some sad, Eden was not to last, and the happiness experienced there only soiled Adam and Eve's perception of "real" life, a life in which they now have free will, but heartache and pain. Thus, the dichotomy between free will and paradise. You cannot have both. You must choose.

I could argue that Satan was better off outside of the garden because, aside from his longing for something he would never possess (at least not in happiness) he could see beauty, and he knew it. In our post-lapsarian world, we will never experience Paradise on Earth, but understanding what it could be and knowing that it exists allows us to always strive for more, better, fulfillment and experiences. It is hope, while at the same time, being realistic to the knowledge that what you hope for will never be fully attained. This may seem to be a contradiction, but if I can explain it correctly, it is precisely the intersect of optimism and pragmatism.

What you really strive for is not perfection, or perfect beauty, or perfect happiness, because there is no such thing. You strive to be closer, and to live in the glow of such things.

I think that is we could all be content to live in the glow of perfection, we may breathe easier. On the other hand, I describe myself as on the brink of perfection because there are certainly times when I am the outsider, staring in longingly and wanting paradise so badly. I need to learn to be content in the glow, to be content at my place in the world, East of Eden.

Yes,

I calmed down.

Thanks for asking.

;)