A Message of Simplicity

There were very few things that made me second guess my decision to pursue the dream in which I am now living – the biggest of which was my Grandma. I was well aware that the last time I hugged her goodbye would likely be the final time I was ever graced with her presence. I struggled with whether or not I could live with myself, if I could cope with an immense grief without my loved ones, if she would forgive me for choosing my happiness over hers, until my plane lifted its wheels from the cement of the Denver run-way . . . in my bed tonight, I continue to grapple with these same issues.
It was early Saturday morning when I got the call. Usually I don’t get the honor of hearing the familiar voices of my family until Sunday – so I knew that things were not right in the world, and yet the news still rained over me like an angry storm of longing, loneliness, and sorrow. There was a letter somewhere in the world meant for her mailbox, a brand new phone card in my purse specifically purchased with her in mind. I left to chase my dreams, but she was never far from my thoughts, never out of reach in the most sacred places of my heart – I wish I would have had the chance to share that with her one last time.
Having to hurdle my sadness without the support of those feeling the same sense of loss was such a daunting task I felt dizzy (funny) and sick to my stomach . . . couple that with the fact that I am in Thailand where death is not an occasion for tears and I was a recipe for true disaster. I crawled out of the tent I call a bedroom attempting something, anything near composure and ran to the shower. Thai people are: one, primarily Buddhist and two, uncomfortable with any emotion which does not result in a smile. My shower is usually a rushed splash of ice cold water, more of a show than a true opportunity to bathe – on this day, however, I took my time, went through the day in my head, walked myself through a conversation with my host family (keep in mind I don’t know how to say grandma, die, sad, lonely, funeral, old, sick . . . nothing), and then took a deep breath and urged myself to keep breathing because that is what she would want.
It is important to understand that Thai people are not unkind, or insensitive, they just truly don’t feel sad about death because their system of belief is one which says we live in this life with the sole purpose of becoming the best version of ourselves in order to receive a better life next time around, if not complete enlightenment. So death here is something of a celebration because it is an opportunity for loved ones to break free of the cycle of being born and reborn (enlightenment), or to be born into a more comfortable and happy life. There are no tears, no prayers, no eulogies, no black clothing; there is dancing, singing, eating, laughing, and lots and lots of getting drunk – people truly celebrate.
The last thing on earth I felt like being faced with was a party and I knew if I did not tread lightly this already impossible time would become one which I could not surpass. I got out of the shower, grabbed a box of tissue, found my dictionary, swallowed my heart which had crept into my throat, and headed for breakfast. They immediately became tense at the sight of my swollen face, but their apprehension melted away as I began using the completely insufficient Thai vocabulary I possess and my little dictionary to explain my sadness. Initially they responded exactly like I suspected and then it was like an American light warmed their souls and they were able to completely be the people I needed in that moment. With that being said, the moment was brief, the hugs not quite tight or familiar enough, the language barrier too large a mote to seize, and my being crumbled in too many pieces for anyone to really put back together.
I went about the day like it was any other; I had language lessons, meetings, and a lunch date with friends. I wanted to believe that keeping myself busy, acting as though my phone had simply neglected to ring this morning would make everything make more sense – or at least ease the burning that was consuming every atom in my person. That was a bad idea. I went home early in hopes that I could crawl back into my tent and just be alone – again, not the best thought. My family met me on the road and informed me that we would be going to a temple the following day to do tambone (merit making) in honor of my Grandma. I was honored and touched that they would have attempted to do something so out of their element to help ease the strife that was so clearly written in the lines of my face.
The temple was uninspiring and only made me long to be surrounded by family and friends – people who knew her, who could laugh about the silly things she would say, who could talk about her stubborn nature, who could remember the way she could grow a garden, who could still taste her food if they tried hard enough, who knew what it felt like to just agree with her because that was what she wanted most – regardless of how absurd her assertions were. I wanted to be held by someone who knew what it was like to lean over her chair for a hug, to sit in a room an smell nothing but stale cigarette, to see her smile and hear her laugh, to swim while she proudly watched from a lawn chair in the back yard. I wanted to sit and eat chili in my Halloween costume and then count candy; I wanted to light a rose candle; I wanted to watch a soap opera. I wanted so much to be home, to be with people who understood all of these things; people who were not just sympathizing, but who were empathizing.
So, what do you do when none of that is within your reach? You go to a temple and pretend to have some sort of outer body experience, you suck up the tears, your smile for your family, and you go home and remember all alone. I still cry for her almost every day – I missed her before, but now it is like this tugging feeling, like someone is knocking on my door and no matter how badly I want to get up and see who it is I can’t because I k now when the door opens there will be no one standing there. So I don’t answer it, I don’t respond – I simply remember her and think about what it was that she wanted from life. I think she wanted something pretty simple and sweet; she understood something few do and we all should. She understood that it was ok to expect something from your family, she knew that she was so full of love that she had to be careful about how she shared it – she loved us all, she loved us all more than most people have the capacity to love, but she did it in a special way because she had the acute ability to give in out in equal portions so no one ever felt less loved than anyone else. In hopes of coping, of never forgetting, of letting her live on through her loved ones I am going to try and absorb this lesson – when something makes you happy you should do it, simple pleasures are the best to hold on to, and family should be your number one ally. I am going to eat what makes me happy, rejoice in the simple things, give of myself in even amounts, and lean on the people who know me best – I think living in this vein would make her proud.
I want to remember every day the things that made me laugh, like when she would get flustered and say “good night!” I want to hold on to the times we spent watching movies in her basement, playing in the pools with cool-aid and snacks waiting for us. I want to hear her say “swim and eat, swim and eat.” I want to taste BBQ ribs on Mother’s Day, and I want to feel the strength of her hands when she was at her best for the rest of my life. I miss home every time I let myself think about her and sincerely hope she is at peace with my decision to be here right now. We were all so lucky to have had her in our lives, now we are lucky to have her in our hearts – I hope I can live the kind of life that would make her feel the same when I take my last breath. Lean on each other, love each other, appreciate each other . . . that’s ALL she would really want.