Archive for September, 2007

Dear Ferdinand,

tonight we had dinner outside and I really missed you. Your sisters love to eat outside becoz they can run around like crazy nuts, and light incense sticks with the candle flame and stick them between pebbles or in the old tree trunk. As they run around, I thought how there should be three of you.

Today I also spent some time again obsessing about the how and why and when again. I just can’t help it. It does not help me feel better, but I do not feel worse either.

It’s funny that tonight when I am missing you ever so sorely suddenly Sophia decided that this night she wants to come sleep next to me. She said her toes “hurt” and therefore she has to sleep with me. I guess she knows I need the physical comfort of a small warm body next to me tonight.

I searched the sky when we were outside; I did not see you. Where are you, my baby?

Missing you badly,


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I was reading Kubler-Ross’s “Death and Dying”.

It was very interesting.

In her introduction, she wrote about how the face of death and dying had changed… people used to die in their house. Friends and neighbors come and see the departed for the last time in a room in the house they lived in; they can spend as much or as little time as they wish; and usually the community digs the grave together, and bury the deceased. Everyone can be involved, including young children. So there was no taboo about death. It’s a part of Life. But now, people often die away from their homes- in hospitals, in hospices, …. surrounded by beeping instruments, nurses and doctors… it becomes enveloped in a sphere away from Life. Hospitals become a scary place, death becomes a bunch of numbers.

Ross talked about the experience the near-dying goes through, no longer treated as a human but something hooked up to a machine, or various machines, that churn out numbers. Because of the discomfort, or, fear of death, doctors look at charts more than into their patient’s eyes. Perhaps the inability to do something to extend the Life makes it too painful for them to interact with the patient. But then, no one is eternal; everyone dies. Other than curing diseases, what can doctors, a profession so close to healing, do for their patients? Perhaps all the patient wants is to be treated like a dignified human near his last breath. Not frantic, futile attempts to extend the last breath, unable to talk, unconscious…  Nurses concentrate on the machine statistics, glancing at the level of fluids.drugs being pumped into the dying person’s body, instead of holding their hand and talking to them.

But it is not just about death.

I had the same experience being at the hospital for two child births. The first time the nurse hooked me up with pitocin, and then walked away to leave me to writhe in pain. She did not ask if she could hold my hand, massage my feet, or bring me a warm, moist towel. Or something to drink. The machine beeps and gives her information. She relied on the machine to tell her things about me, when i am just there, a living, heaving woman, who can tell her things. (Yes, maybe I will be yelling, scream, yelping… but I am human. Ah, but perhaps the human-ness that borders on a proximity to being an animals makes people scared and uncomfortable). The second time, there was a computer in the room, it tracks my contractions (I thought of midwives who put their hands on the woman’s belly and feel the contractions; who senses if the contractions are strong, weak, coming quickly together, or not)- how long, how strong. The nurses do ask for my feedback- like how would I rate the pain level on a scale of one to ten? They do look at me and ask me if they can do anything for me. But still…. something is lacking. They were really wonderful, and only upon reading Ross’s “On Death and Dying” do I realize that the human dimension was still so sorely lacking. And I have to ask, if it was not known that I was going to give birth to a dead baby, would they have spent more time with me? Perhaps fantasizing about the baby, and telling birth stories? Was the grief too painful for them too? And so perhaps the best they could do for me was to make sure the pitocin was dripping at an optimal rate…. to offer me something warm for my back.

The more I delve into it, the more the human face blurs into a mish-mash of statistics and numbers for me. We are numbers; we are a string of information. We are Social Security Number, Street Address, and Credit Card Number. We are Income bracket; we are statistics. Where is the human face? Who are you? And who am I?

Lately, sifting through thrift store racks till my shoulder ached, trying to find some clothing to fit into, my head was just running numbers and numbers. I keep hanging on to the historic “4” that I was, and trying not to see that I had progressed from looking at the sizes “7-8” to “9-10”, and refusing to proceed to “11-12”. I try to balance myself in the changing room and heave and pant to put something on, thinking, “I cannot be this SIZE. NOT this number!” Crap, what am I turning into?

Look at my face, what do you see? Look at my body, what does it tell you? Does a less than “perfect” body tell you I have been lazy, that I eat too much chocolates and that I do not have a cosmetic surgeon whom I can go to? Or does it tell you I have been bearing babies, and that perhaps my body is in a state of imbalance and still trying to find its equilibrium?

Why am I fitting myself into numbers too? Why do I think I will die if I am going to need a size 12 today?

But back to the death and dying, back to the birth. Back to these major Rites of Passage in our lives. I have to think, how will I die? How do I want to die? I feel the urgent need to let my children know that dying is ok (actually, I think they already know.); that it is a part of the Life Cycle. I want to let them know to treat a person who is dying with extreme respect, to really look into their eyes and listen to what they have to say. Letting go can be easy or difficult; it all depends on the individual, and according to Ross, a lot also depends on how the dying is treated on their death beds. Sometimes, they are ready to depart but the living wants to hang on to them.

With Ferdinand, I saw how inept, how clumsy we are with dealing with deaths. People feel devastated; they do not know what to say or do, they try to avoid the topic for us. We don’t know what to say; we don’t know how to make the family feel better. I  realized we need more exposures to death, so we can learn to have more grace around it. I felt we need to know more about death, so we can honor both the dead and the living. Perhaps this was one thing Ferdinand wanted me to learn. I cannot help but be humbled.

I vow to look at the human face more closely. I think that is why people need Prozac. We want to be really looked at. To really be heard. To really connect. To just be a human face and not just numbers.

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Dear Ferdinand,

my Little One… …

I call you Little One, but actually, your soul is probably much, much older than mine.

And wiser too.

I understand now, almost totally, I think, your decision.

I know why you chose not to come live here.

I understand, and accept, (most of the time), that you walk a different path than mama.

And you are perhaps even nearing the end of your “journey”. Very close to Eternal Bliss. Probably already at Eternal Bliss.

Perhaps you were tempted for a little while, and thought perhaps, maybe, life on Earth cannot be too bad.

But you came to your senses, and remember what Nirvana truly is. And you departed. You chose the right path and you went.

Oh, Ferdinand, that makes me really sad. But I understand. At least, I want to really understand, and be very, very happy for you.

We miss you still.

Your sisters watch “Teletubbies” (don’t scold me, they really like the show) and when they see the sun, with the baby face in it, they call out loudly, “Hello Ferdinand! Hello Ferdinand! Hello, hello!!” They run to me and say, “That is Ferdinand! By day he is the sun and at night he is a star. He is high up there, in the sky!” They are very happy. They do not feel sad. I guess they are also much wiser than mama.

At night, sometimes they give a flying kiss after the light has been turned out, and they say, “Goodnight, Ferdinand!”

And inside, quietly, I say, “Goodnight, Ferdinand. Goodnight, my star.”

I am still very sad.

The weather is cooling down. Up at the cabin, you can really smell that Fall is in the air. The leaves are still green, but it has been windy. Very cold at night and in the mornings. The breezes are cool, chilly. We need to prepare for autumn already. The Autumn Moon Festival is this Wednesday. We’ll be gazing at the moon and thinking of you, Ferdinand. I think this first “holiday” will be hard for me. Autumn Moon is about gathering, reunion, wishes. Women wish for fertility and husbands from the Moon Goddess. Travelers all and far look up to the moon and think of their home, their loved ones who are also gazing up at the moon on the same night, and in that sense, they are parted and reunited at the same time.

We will be looking for you.

You father’s lower back has been very bad. It aches and spasms. I am really worried.

And sometimes, I feel terrified.

He has been to the chiro a few times and the help is short-lived.

You know how I feel? I sometimes can’t help thinking if we have reached the age, or phase, called “starting to go downhill”. Like, in terms of life quality, health, etc. Like, you start hearing more and more sad news- people get sick, people die, worries, etc etc.

But anyway, in a sense it is good, so this weekend at the cabin he mostly relaxed.

We did go to the Cold Springs Ranch waterfall though. Your father mentioned it and of course Valerie was all raring to go. You cannot tell her anything and then say something to the effect of “do it later” because she will demand that we do it now or she will keep buzzing in your ear like a crazy mosquito until you tell her exactly when you will do it with her. Then perhaps she will relent a little bit.

The “hike” was not too bad at all. We went Friday around noon time. We were the only people there. Very quiet, and nice. Blue skies, white clouds, the gush of the water falling. Clear water. COLD water. Your father insisted I at least put my feet into the water. He said it will do a lot for my circulation. The water was really cold. But both your sisters got in, shrieking with delight! I sat and watched them, and I thought of you. In the midst of Nature, in that big embrace, I felt very lonely. Because I yearned for you. I could feel your spirit around us. I could feel you just being there, and quiet, and just accepting. You were just there patient and quiet with me. You did not try to egg me on. To smile, to laugh, to be more joyful.

Last week your father and I had a small fight. He told me I needed to “move on”. You know, I know he did not mean to hurt me. It is just that this loss is painful for him, and he wants to try to pull away. But I am loitering around. He raised his voice at me and said, “Move on already!” And I stared at him, and I know my face distorted and suddenly the tears gushed out. I pushed the bowl away from me, stood up and walked away. Then I laid on the floor in the family room and curled myself up.

What the hell is moving on? I am really trying, my son. Little things. The de-cluttering, the cleaning. I am cooking almost regularly now. The last time I looked at your clothing I did not cry. I talked to V the other night, giving her all the details of the circumstances surrounding your birth and I did not cry. Not a drop of tear. I told her you chose your path and I accepted it. Were you proud that I did not cry? I really did feel quite calm then. I almost thought I was “over it”. But I don’t think any mother ever gets over her child’s departure.

Anyway, I was telling Cecille the other day about a star named Ferdinand. And she told me a few days after she lost her mother, when she was in college, she went out at night with a few friends to look at the sky and there was this star so shiny and bright she felt it could only be her mother looking back at her. And she said since then others have shared with her how, after a loved one’s passing, they seem to find a new bright star in the sky. I told her I had the same experience. Tell me, is this how stars are formed?

On Saturday it rained nearly the whole day. The creek was low and by evening, the water level had risen and starting to seep into our yard again. I am glad it was too dark for Sophia to see that; she is still rather traumatized by the flood we had. But the next morning she told me the water in the creek looked like chocolate. It was muddy. Two-and-a-half-inches of rain in a day. It rained in the night too. Because it was raining we could not do anything but stayed inside. Read, play games, eat. I read “Snow Flower and the Secret Fan”. The story of two girl friends during a time in China when young girls had their feet bounded. It was a cruel practice. When you read it, you think you are so lucky to be in a different age. But then, maybe it is not so different. There are still so many atrocities. And for some, the relationship between men and women had not changed that much really. There is still, Suffering. That very first Noble Truth. Life is suffering. Existence is Suffering.

The character Snow Flower was pregnant eight times, but only three of her children lived. I cannot imagine, Ferdinand, I just cannot imagine. Her second child was a daughter and she wrote to her dearest friend “My baby daughter was born dead.” You know my heart skipped a beat when I read that. Like someone punched me real hard and I could not breathe. She wrote of how she held her baby’s feet in her hands and thought how they would never know the agony and pain of footbinding. She touched her eyes and thought how they would never weep in sadness of having to leave one’s natal home, of seeing for the last time, of saying goodbye to a dead child. She wrote of putting her fingers over her baby’s heart and how it would never know pain, sorrow, loneliness and shame.

Ferdinand, when I held you…. I touched your eyes and thought of how I will never see them sparkle and smile at me and challenge me. I held your fingers and wept over how I will never feel the warmth of your fingers wrapped in mine. I held your feet and my heart ached that they will not feel the grass and ground underneath them, that you will never toddle in them towards mama, gurgling and drooling. I held your head in mine and thought of how your head will never rest on my chest for a nap, or a good cry, or in laughter. I put my hand over your heart and cried that it was not beating. I touched your nose and I mourned that you never drew a breathe in this world. I traced your lips and I wanted to watch them open and latch on, and cry and smile and laugh and coo and talk to me.

But, you know, perhaps I should be happy like how Snow Flower thought of how her daughter will not know of pain and sorrow. You were just a sleeping baby. No, you are a wise, traveling soul, and I hope truly that you will never know pain, sorrow and loneliness. Not to worry, and fret and agonize. Hopefully, one day mama can be the same too. No worries, no fears, no pain, no sorrow.

There is always an emptiness, no matter where I am. A space where you are meant to be. I know I have to let you go. Have I let you go? There was nothing I can do to keep you with me physically. And I suppose I should let you be free in spirit and soul too. I think you are. I think you are truly free, because you do not visit me in my dreams. So you must be totally free and unattached and moving onwards in your special journey. It pains me, yet I feel happy. For you.

And I still feel grateful that you were with us, even if shortly.

And forever we will have a bright star in the sky to call our own, Ferdinand.

I miss you. I love you.


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I haven’t had much the desire to journal. Even though I have thoughts forming in my head all the time, like the swirls of white of the milk you see in the coffee mug after you pour the milk in. Then the coffee makes the milk a part of it, devouring it, and you no longer see the white. And my desire to write dissolves that same way too. Just disappears.

I really wanted to write how I felt as the 49-day mourning came to an end, but I did not. I think it was too big for me to fit all of that into an entry.

Manged to de-clutter downstairs, as best as I could. I used up two packs of wet wipes to make all those decades-old dust disappear. There is now space in the family room, and we can see the carpet (with all the stains) most of the time. That gave me some sense of satisfaction and it was as if I cleansed a part of my soul too. Except now the girls’ room are full of bags and boxes again. Need to sift through all those things again and throw, dump, sell, donate, whatever. And then I think maybe we have a “clean” house that is finally livable, and we won’t feel so stressed in it anymore.

Of course, as I was cleaning and de-cluttering, I had the contradictory feelings of gladness- FINALLY I am getting to this, after procrastinating for 4 years to do this. AND the feeling that “I should not be doing this. I should be feeding a baby right now!” I cried through some parts. Like when tearing the day-by-day bird calendar to the current date. It was backdated to June, when we left the house to go to the cabin. As I tore page after page of the days and the birds on them, my tears flowed and flowed as memories flooded back again.

I think I didn’t cry as much the last two weeks. Reason unknown. Maybe occupied with cleaning. Feeling more frustrated with all the nonsense we have that I know will never get fully organized. There’s this drawer of neatly stacked “stuff”- brochures, maps, pictures, small notebooks, etc from travels. Stuff you put away until one day you are old and bored and cannot walk anymore and maybe will *finally* get them organized into a book or something. Though, at the back of my mind I told myself, “yeah, right. As if!” No, probably my children will happily have those stuff thrown into my coffin to be cremated with me so they *finally* do not have to help me move them one more time.

I have shelves of books to read. I try not to look in that direction.

The girls have been neglected. I am physically here, but not emotionally. I feel guilty. We read sometimes. Do a few things together, but most of the time I am feeling impatient. And detached. I spoke to a grief counselor yesterday afternoon and I told her I want to MOVE ON because I cannot neglect my children anymore. She told me to not be in so much of a hurry. To take my time. She asked, “Are your children having food?” “Yes”. “OK, are they in their pajamas all day?” “Sometimes.” “Oh, ok, but that is fine too… …” Actually, we are often in pajamas, and sometimes we don’t really wear pajamas to bed. Really, what’s the big deal? If it is a clean T-shirt and pants, you can wear it to bed, why must it be “pajamas”? The counselor said, “Children are very resilient.” but I don’t want them to be living like this anymore. It. is. just. not. right.

We went to Artville yesterday. I really tried to get into the mood and be happy and light-hearted. But I guess I did not succeed too well. When we were playing with the keva planks together, Val asked me, “Mummy, why is your face upside down?” Meaning, I look really awful. I told her I am just feeling upside down. I look awful. My hair is a mess, my belly is hanging out, my hips protrude beyond the boundaries of this Universe, my thighs look like they belong to an elephant. The other day we got off the car at the library and I heard T calling me. She said she saw us in the car and turned her car around and came to greet us. She also looked at my balloon of a belly and asked me if I am using a girdle, and told me that I should. Maybe I need an operation. Really.

Some days I feel light. I can deal with it. I can move on. Other days, just all the direct opposites. This is such a strange way to be evolving. But I know I will evolve. Emerge as someone else. We all evolve no matter what. But having lost Ferdinand makes it a more poignant process. It seems it has more of a purpose. It is my chance to grow again.

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There is now a star in the sky called “Ferdinand Lenigk”.

Last Thursday we saw our midwife and her assistant for the “last time” for the 6-week postpartum visit. I was not looking forward to it; feeling sad about the empty arms and feeling our loss even more, being reminded of a happy pregnancy that ended abruptly in shock, loss, pain and anguish. At the end of the visit, Robin and Mani presented us with a gift- folder that contained a certificate from the Universal Star Council of a star named “Ferdinand Lenigk.” Their gift message was, “For your little star voyager. Now he has a place to call home.”

What a gift! It was really thoughtful, and will bring a smile to my heart everytime I look up to the night skies and know that there is a star named Ferdinand out there. It is still hard though, to accept everything. Today I wrote to S:” I want to honor his choice, and be really glad and happy that he had chosen to be in a bigger, brighter, better place, not this crummy earth, but still I cannot accept my loss whole-heartedly. I selfishly want him to come roll in his dirty earth with me, experience all the absurdities and laugh at them together too… ….”

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For the past three weeks I have been dealing with tooth pain. It really made me miserable, as if I do not already have enough pain in my life right now. But perhaps it was also my body sounding an alarm to me that I need to take care of myself.

I had pain in one of my upper right tooth a few days after the delivery. It was extremely sensitive and any contact with the tooth, esp when trying to chew/bite/eat sent me into convulsions of pain. I thought it may be due to hormonal fluctuations. R thought I may be having a root infection, he looked at the tooth, and the gums surrounding it but saw nothing. He mentioned it to his mum a couple of days later, and she suggested homeopathic hypericum with arnica for nerve sensitivity. After two sleepless nights and misery, coupled with engorged breasts and the pain of loss, I was on the verge of breakdown. We have those homeopathic remedies so I tried them. The pain went away almost immediately and miraculously. I touched the tooth and did not feel any pain at all. It was amazing.

But the pain came back on and off thereafter, but much lower in magnitude and I relied on the hypericum-arnica combo to get me through.

Then, soon after we moved back down to the valley, I had pain not just in that tooth but also in another tooth on the upper left jaw, and this time, the entire left side felt sore and painful. While I normally run away from NSAID’s, I broke down and resorted to them in order to be able to at least sleep a little at night. One day I took the maximum dosage of Ibuprofen because the pain would not go away, and i was rolling on the floor writhing in pain, my palm pressing over my left eye as the pain seemed to have traveled upwards. I saw two dentists who could not see anything on the x-rays nor any decay nor gum inflammation. NOTHING indicated to them why I was in such pain. Then, the second dentist asked if I had been very stressed; he asked if the baby had been waking up often at night to nurse. I was not in a state to discuss about Ferdinand, so I just said no. And he said, well, no matter what, having a new baby is stressful, and I could have been grinding or clenching my teeth unawares, irritating the nerves and therefore causing pain. I went online to a group of friends who believe in food as medicine and pleaded for help before I resorted and succumbed to a root canal.

Someone came out and told me she had extreme nerve pain like mine because her adrenals were depleted. Soon, emails start to come in and I was told stress brought on by grief/loss can severely overtax the adrenals, and that one of the reactions is the grinding of teeth at night. Also, an overtaxed liver, not uncommon after a pregnancy, can cause similar problems. I could also be lacking in various nutrients, including iodine. Someone suggested I do something called “oil pulling”.

I suddenly felt as if the tooth pain was not teeth-related. It has nothing to do with my oral hygiene. It had to do with my mental state of mind and how i was neglecting my health (and at the same time, my family’s as well, as i trudge through the days not caring what I ate or drank. But of course the girls eat and drink what I do… ). I had to look into why my adrenals were so depleted; try to help my liver be well again… …. I tried the oil pulling and it was difficult in the beginning but I immediately felt the pain recede and since that morning I have not had a single pain-killer because I did not need it. So, I guess my body is also trying to get me to detox in some ways.

Dealing with tooth pain had been very draining. I felt really annoyed and sad and angry. I really did not need anything like that. But it had gotten me to stand up on my feet again and be more conscious of how I was treating my body and to remember my responsibilities as a mother to my two girls.

We have not really gotten out and about. It is too hot and I am in no mood to see anyone or be social. I saw M two weeks ago to get the TCW catalog from her. V came too because she badly wanted to see me. When I arrived at M’s house she was nursing her daughter in the room. I stood and waited in the living room. When she came out of the bedroom she called out, “Janis! Janis!! I am so happy to see you again! Janis!!” I turned around, and I see joy mixed with sorrow on her face, her arms wide open. We hugged and I started to cry, because she felt so happy to see me. I felt my arms so empty as I hugged her and I thought of the clothing she washed and sorted for Ferdinand, and how she told me she cried upon hearing about Ferdinand’s passing and how tears came to her eyes seeing Valerie and Sophia and thinking she will not get to see Ferdinand grow on this side of heaven.

A couple of days after I went out on my own to get groceries. I was glad to be alone and not having to cater to the needs of Val and Sophia. But I also felt extremely lonely as I drove around in an empty car. By the time I got home, I only wanted to plop down and wail.

At one point last week I was afraid I may be getting depressed. I went online to do a search on “symptoms of depression” and I thought I saw myself and I got a little scared. I have not cried much the last two weeks but my heart was very cold and numb. I had no wish for social contact and it scared myself how I felt towards people. I am by no means an extremely warm person, but I also do not normally feel cold towards my own daughters and my friends. I remember how I was able to hold Val and Sophia and kept validating their feelings and being un-humanly patient and listening to their wailing and whining in the first weeks. Now any sound from them grate on my nerves. I often felt like flunging them out on the streets so I can get some quiet. I wrote an email to T, whom I have never met but who suffered a similar loss almost a year ago and I told her I am afraid I may be getting depression. She assured me everything I felt was normal. It’s not depression, it’s grief. Be kind and gentle to yourself, she said; and cry all you like.

R felt I could use some fresh air, nature and sunshine so this past weekend at the cabin he took us up to the Rim for an exploratory drive. The scenery was amazingly beautiful. We passed by lines and lines of trees and I felt as if they stood in solemness as we passed by. With my eyes I traced the silhouette of the mountain ranges drawn across the sky and I wondered how long they have been there. I thought about how they used to be oceans; how fishes swam through them and how one may still find fossified shells on these mountains.In the haziness, the mountains sometimes look really unreal, as if someone projected an image of the layers of mountain ranges against the heavens. I thought about the centuries and centuries of human life, or animal life, that had been sustained by the mountains, and the stories that had lived and been told for centuries. What stories? What emotions? What tears? What laughter? What pain? What loss? I heard, in my ears, distant echoes of grief, of laughter. For centuries, all these never changed. Life, death, sorrow, pain loss, happiness, joy, re-birth.

We came to Baker’s Butte, where the fire look-out there is the highest point on the Rim. The kind lady in-charge of the look-put took us up to the tower though we had arrived right at the beginning of her lunch hour. The view was panaromic and stunning. Really, really very beautiful. There was haze that day but on clear days, she told us, she could see Mount Lemmon and San Francisco Peaks. Val said, “Wow! You can see the whole world from here!” It really feels that way, like at the top of the world. I feel as if I fall out of the window I will fall straight down and right to the bottom of the world,wherever that was. I saw she was working on a quilt. She showed us the heart shapes on it and  a picture of who she was making the quilt for- a really chubby little baby boy, her 6-month-old grandson. I looked down at my still protruding tummy. No, I did not have to think of Ferdinand; he was always with me. I just missed him terribly more.

T suggested I join a support group. I felt so resistant! I did not want to hear more sad stories. I feel selfish. I do not want to believe other people can have similar sorrows. I don’t want to be comparing our losses. I know clearly I am not the only one who have had such a loss; there are many others; I have read, in books about loss and grief, and on the internet. No one’s loss is more or less than another. It is all a monumental loss, to lose a loved one, whether it be when that person died at 106 or 55 or 3 weeks old or in utero. I did not want to cry some more. I just do not feel I can handle more sorrow. I did not want strangers to hear about Ferdinand. He is my boy, my baby, my love, my loss! All mine! I just want to curl up in a hole and nurse and lick my own wound and just be with him until I can finally, truly, truly let him go, one more time. I was just not ready. Can anyone ever be ready?

T said, you will feel better, really it will. There will be a scar but it is really going to be OK someday.

I am not sure what I am looking for. Not a closure, not healing, not anything. I just stand, the winds and sands sweeping past me, and I feel the urge to gain control and finish up de-cluttering and organizing the house, and fall into a heap together with the girls again and read and do things and laugh carefree. I don’t want this cold numb heart. I hate this trudging and tumbling. I wish sometimes someone just take a gun and shoot me, or take a stab at my heart so it bleeds real bad and I feel all the hurt once and for all. But I guess no, in this samsara, the pain is slow and gradual; the happiness and joy intoxicating so you forget the pain, and you dance and sing and rejoice, and then suddenly again you are reminded of the pain and suffering. Oh, foolish mortals. Foolish me. I felt last Sunday I want to go and be a nun in a monastary, to just do nothing but meditate on pain, suffering, life and death. Re-birth, perhaps.

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