449: still thinking about him.

Two months ago today, Callen Fuchs, a former student of mine, passed away when snowboarding in Michigan. He continues to linger, in the best of ways, reminding me to be a better person, to find joy in the everyday, to celebrate life, to live in a way that honors that bright spirit.

I am moved by this sweet post by his sister on his one-month anniversary of leaving this earth. (Is this what most middle-school age boys are like? I don't think so.)

Thinking of the vast span of people Callen touched, those who are mourning his passing, those finding ways to honor and celebrate and cope too.

(Much of my original nattering about Callen occurred in this month.)

Photos gleaned from Facebook page honoring Callen's life.

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Today is a gift. Every day is a gift.

This morning Ryan accompanied me to Callen's funeral, and finally, my eyes are no longer those ridiculously damp spots; I understand now why these services are touted to allow us to make peace with passing. The service was incredible: we arrived half an hour early and had to park blocks away; we found seats in the last row in the fellowship hall as opposed to the chapel, which was packed (and thus, couldn't hear some of the quieter spoken participants, but still, the spirit was there); it began and ended with a drum circle. So many stories were told, and yes, I began with those ridiculous tears trickling down my face, but ended fully celebrating a life that touched so many, left thinking I might be able to live my own life better now, in ways that can honor a person so good.

His girlfriend was a student of mine too, both in the chorus of the musicals and also in the creative writing class I taught at the high school. I emailed many of my poet-friends, inquiring as to what book they might give in a situation such as this. I settled on Mary Jo Bang's Elegy, which is about the loss of a son to suicide and Donald Hall's Without, which is about the loss of a wife to cancer. Neither experiences parallel Callen and Rachel's situation exactly, but the methods aren't touted in the books as much as the journey of mourning. I chose these partly because they are what sprung to my own mind, partly because I thought an entire narrative as opposed to an anthology might bring more comfort as a more complete portrait of grief, and also because these read clearly. Other wonderful suggestions: the anthology The Invitation of Farewell, edited by Sandra Gilbert; Wild Iris and Averno by Louise Gluck; the anthology Beloved on the Earth: 150 Poems of Grief and Gratitude; Rumi; Georgics of Virgil; Into Perfect Spheres Such Holes Are Pierced by Catherine Barnett; Incomplete Knowledge by Jeffrey Harrison; Ander Monson's VacationLand; individual poems such as "To an Athlete Dying Young," an elegy by Edna St Vincent Millay, and Dylan Thomas' "A Refusal to Mourn..." as well as the prose memoir A Year of Magical Thinking. I only wish a library could ease that ache; I would shower her with books. I thank all of you who sent suggestions; it means a lot to me to have such dear friends sending love in that way.

Other bits from the world of the internet, which have touched me in processing this loss: this video made by a friend and this heartbreaking post written by his sister.

My heart is with those close friends and family as they make peace with losing Callen.

The above image and the ones that follow were all pulled from the Facebook page memorializing Callen. Unfortunately, I don't know who the original photographers are, so I cannot credit them, but I thank those people for sharing the images with us:

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This song was sung at the funeral, which is so undeniably heartbreaking. (Also played: a drum circle / a capella version of "Welcome Home.")

When Ryan and I got married, we had my father's Irish folk band play us down the aisle.

We meant to go to Ireland for our honeymoon, but that was the summer of the passport ridiculousness, and we ended up going to Alaska, which was blissfully wonderful too.

Now I find myself longing for a place I've never been to. Longing for green hills, for sheep, for little cottages, for the cliched Ireland, I suppose.

I recently read an article in The New Yorker on grief that I found particularly compelling. It reminds me much of my favorite television show (Six Feet Under), which would often tackle the ritual of hushing up grief, having that separate room in the funeral hall where the bereaved can sob in private. I felt humbled by my tears at Callen's service; I would wipe them quickly with the edges of my wool coat, hoping former students wouldn't notice. But why not? Why not baldly cry at a loss such as this? Why not let grief be the messy thing that it is? We process in a myriad of ways, and I think it's best we allow ourselves the luxury of facing grief in the best way we know how.

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Two weeks ago I was all shades of blue: the great steps I thought my body was making in getting well were reversing, stress was creeping in the background from school, and then came the news of Callen's passing, which flattened me entirely.

Ryan didn't know what to do, the sweet man. He felt so urgently helpless, would tell the silliest jokes (in the car, I said something was an abomination and he looked at me with his crooked grin and said, "That's where we live! An Obama-nation!" Wah-wah), and even came home with a fistful of carnations, so serene and stayed blooming until this morning.

I think of the color white, how it represents peace, and how I need to find ways to fill my life with that sensation: to allow my body to take its time, to celebrate the positive relationships I have, to enjoy the process of things.

At a friend's suggestion, I have contacted an acupuncturist to work with some of my woes. She and I have also begun a small conversation that includes my deeply considering getting doula training. The prospect makes me shiver with nervousness and excitement; it's something that veers so far from my passion for language, but it touches on that slumbering self, the one that loves to pick things up and look close, the one that is curious about the scientific world, and, as my internship "boss" put it, I want to do something with my post-MFA time that matters. Besides writing wee poems, that is.

Edit to add: just moments after I posted this Dina gave me a call and I have my first appointment for acupuncture, which is a week from today. She's worked with folks dealing with my particular issue before, and this whole prospect makes me breathe a bit better.

475: remembering

It's been six years now, since Yvonne Fraley passed away. I wrote about it here, three years ago, and I know now that my perspective has shifted. Yvonne was a second mother to my sister and myself as we grew up in Chattanooga, Tennessee, and here I am, beginning my own journey to motherhood. I hope my own children will know love as much as I did when I was with her. I sometimes find the same two letters she wrote me, cry quietly at how she pinned the word "proud" on me, how she signed them "Your Second Mama."

Today also marks four months without Callen in the world.

I don't know what it is about good people going too soon, but here these two are, their stories wrapped in one another, the one of the second mother whose passing made me stronger facing the everyday, the one of the former student who led me to forgiveness. It's strange how loss leads to living in one's honor, how loss triggers what we should have done already: love more fully, live lives we can be pleased with, shed all that drags us down. Perhaps it's something about the fullness of the hearts of these people who have gone before us, a need to embrace everyone hello.