One year

Not much to say. It's been a year. Today has been sad, serious, quiet, and also kind of ordinary. It's a strange mixture, I suppose, but that's what this past year has been like--conflicting emotions playing out as you move through this thing called everyday life.

Since the concert on Wednesday, I've been thinking about Brandi Carlile's song, "That Year," a song she wrote about a friend's suicide. It's a terrific song--honest and moving, one of the few songs I can think in which the speaker really takes herself to task for her earlier, more judgmental self. I imagine if Ryan had died when I was 16, like Carlile was when her friend died, I would have had some of the same reactions. But I wasn't 16 when Ryan died. I was 37. Much less judgmental and self-righteous than I used to be (thank God). But one phrase from the song does ring true: "You should have taken a long break / Instead of a long drop from a high place." If only he could have heard this...

Here's one more line from "That Year" that ring true: "You're my friend again." The "again" in Carlile's story is a reference to her letting go of the distance that anger put between herself and her friend after he died. For me, though, the "again" implies a kind of marker that I am hoping comes with one year behind us. The sadness won't ever leave, but maybe now I can just focus more on the good stuff, the things that made him so amazing. The things that made him my brother and my friend. The things that make me feel good.

Wolf Trap

Finally got around to seeing a show at Wolf Trap. Erin and I saw Brandi Carlile on Wednesday evening. It was a perfect night.

My coworker

My coworker this afternoon. He is mostly in charge of moral support and cute distractions. Look at his little feet!

A Tale for the Time Being

Currently working on a conference paper about this amazing book. Here's a passage that stands out to me today:

"...Dad would walk me to school and we'd talk about stuff. I don't remember what, and it didn't matter. The important thing was that we were being polite and not saying all the things that were making us unhappy, which was the only way we knew how to love each other" (47).

Crushingly simple and true.

Tarzan, The Karate Kid, and Sappy Ballads

I've never seen Disney's Tarzan movie. Wikipedia tells me the movie came out in 1999. But it never really registered with me beyond some familiarity with Phil Collin's uptempo ballad, "You'll Be in My Heart." I do have this crystal clear memory of being on a flight once, years later, coming back from a conference, waiting to deplane, and hearing the song blaring from the headphones of a passenger behind me. And--because it takes forever for people to get off a plane--I could tell that whoever was listening had the song on repeat. I found that sweetly amusing, even more so when I saw who the listener was as he walked past me: a young man (maybe in his early 20s), tough-looking, the kind of guy you'd never expect to be listening to an already-old, never-that-popular, Phil Collins Disney ballad on repeat. Because I always like to imagine stories for the people I see at airports or on planes, at the time, I imagined he was smitten with some girl, and perhaps having just said goodbye to her before getting on the plane, he was listening to their song. I imagined her, young, pretty, crying at the terminal, maybe even listening to the same song as she drove home. I never forgot this silly memory, maybe because I so enjoyed the juxtaposition of the listener and his song.

When I was driving back to WV from Ryan's funeral, "You'll Be in My Heart" came on the radio. I instantly remembered that guy on the flight and smiled. When it got to that chorus, though, I started tearing up:

"'Cause you'll be in my heart
Yes, you'll be in my heart
From this day on
Now and forever more
You'll be in my heart
No matter what they say
You'll be here in my heart, always"

And then this verse:

"When destiny calls you
You must be strong
I may not be with you
But you've got to hold on
They'll see in time
I know
We'll show them together" 

Look, it's not Shakespeare, but it's simple and moving. And there I was, driving down I-81, a blubbery mess. It was, though, a good kind of sad. Cathartic. Since then, I've thought about this silly Phil Collins song from time to time, about how perfect it was for that moment, even if it's really only the chorus and that one verse that "fits" my situation. Looking at Youtube comments on the video, I see that the song reminds lots of people of those they lost. And I've thought about that young man from the airplane, now wondering if he was listening to that song on repeat not because of a girlfriend, but because he had just lost someone. I thought about him again tonight, as I found myself listening to the song more than once. And that got me thinking about yet another sappy song from a movie...

My brother was a real tough guy on the outside, even as a little kid. Hated any movie with a love story (or said he did). Rolled his eyes at schmaltzy stuff. But inside, he was a marshmallow. For instance, when it came out way back in 1986, he secretly loved this song, "The Glory of Love." He never admitted it to me, but we shared a bedroom wall and that summer, the summer my dad took me and a couple of friends to see The Karate Kid, Part 2 for my birthday (the movie that featured that song), I heard my brother play it again and again, a far cry from his usual rotation of what you'd expect from an 11-year-old boy. (Just like I never imagined that the young man on the plane would be the one listening to the Tarzan song.) I even remember seeing the cassette tape on which he had copied the song from the radio. (Remember when we used to do that?)

Even then, when I was just 9, I imagined stories, and in my mind, he was pining after some girl from church or school. We teased each other all the time, and I so easily could have teased him about this. But I never did. I never even told him I knew. I don't think I even told another soul about it until after he died. It always felt too intimate, like this piece of himself that he didn't want to show. And I think I must have liked knowing it, liked knowing this secret, liked imagining this part of him, so different from the version of him who frequently made my young life miserable with his teasing.

So yeah, years later, another sappy ballad that another guy had listened to on repeat kind of made sense to me. Ryan would have appreciated the connection, even if he never would have admitted it. He never would have said the words of that last verse of "You'll Be in My Heart" to me ("too cheesy," he would have said), at least not when he was "the old Ryan," but he would have felt them. Anyone who knew him and loved him knew that that guy was deep and full of feeling. He didn't always know what to do with all that emotion, though. He spent a lot of time feeling unworthy or misunderstood. I wish I could have told him more how wrong he was, how much I appreciated the depth of his feelings and his mind, even if those very fathoms are part of what haunted him so much. I did say it, but it never seemed to sink in. And by the end, when he was such a different person, I guess I stopped trying so hard beyond just telling him that we wanted him around, that we wanted him to fight and stay with us. Priorities change.

I'll never be able to hear either of those songs without thinking of my brother and his hidden depths. And despite the sadness I've felt writing this post, I think that's a good thing, because I've smiled, too.

Redbud

It's been so long since my last post. I could explain at length why, but it's enough to say that the winter into spring has been challenging, busy, and at times, quite tough. But spring always makes me think things have to be looking up. This little photo is another welcome sign.

It's the redbud tree I planted in my yard back when I moved in. Since then, it grew bigger and taller, but never flowered. Not even once. This year, finally, a few lovely buds have emerged. I think I know why: last July, when Ryan visited with my parents (the last time I saw him), he pruned the tree for me, along with the little maple out front. I remember that day so clearly: how hard he worked, how determined he was to get it right, how glad I was that he was there to help.

Spring is a season of renewal, of life coming back. My brother is gone from this life, but in so many small ways, he's still here with us.

"The Good Life"

Sharing this link to The Dish's poem of the day, "The Good Life," by Mark Strand, who died earlier this week. A lovely little poem that made me think and smile.

Halloween Cats!

The boys in their Halloween ties. Don't judge (too much)! I got a good deal: $2.50 each and free shipping!

Galway Kinnell

The wonderful poet Galway Kinnell passed away earlier this week. I've always been very fond of this poem, and am thankful that Andrew Sullivan's blog pointed me to video of him reading it. So often, students will complain that so much of what we read in classes is sad and depressing. This poem is in my catalog of responses to that criticism. I love the details like the too-tight pajamas that the boy still wears and the touching immediacy and intimacy of the line "his face gleaming with satisfaction at being this very child." It's cozy and sweet and just lovely.



(Special shout-out to a loyal reader who recently asked me to post something, anything. It's been hard to get back into regular posting, but I promise to try harder!)

"Fiction, Gossip, Theatre, Jokes, and all interesting"

I found this blog post about the little magazine T.S. Eliot started when he was ten years old very charming. A lovely bit of precocious sweetness. It makes me smile to think of Eliot as a little boy since, in my head, I (somewhat problematically) conflate Eliot with Prufrock.

Rainy night music...

"If I could through myself set your spirit free
I'd lead your heart away
See you break, break away
Into the light and to the day..."

Just a bit ago, as I was working on some notes for a project, U2's "Bad" came up on the Pandora station. I realized I hadn't heard this song in some time and found even more appreciation for it (and I already loved it). The energy, the frustration, the sadness, the elation, the crescendo...amazing.

"...we can know many things that are very hard to bear"

Since my brother died, I've had this urge to wrap everyone I love in bubble wrap. (Not really, but you get my point.) Anyway, connected to that, I just had to share this "Quote for the Day" from The Dish. Marilynne Robinson is a longtime favorite of mine, and this quotation really speaks to me:

“I think one of the poignant things about human beings is that they’re so undefended, physically. And that there’s an absolute relationship between that defenselessness and everything that’s impressive about them. I think a lot of us would like to be turtles and porcupines, and I think that in a way one of the impulses of human beings is to defend themselves in a way that nature did not. But I think the other impulse is to just love the experience with nothing to protect oneself, and actually feeling in fact no barrier. People know about their mortality in a way that we can’t know that any animal knows. They know about Earth being a ball in space. Intelligence of the high human sort could be translated as defenselessness, because we can know many things that are very hard to bear,” – Marilynne Robinson, in an interview included in A Door Ajar: Contemporary Writers and Emily Dickinson.

This guy...

Today's been a rough day for a lot of reasons. But for a lot of other reasons, it should have been a good day: I got a ton of work done, I got a good long walk in, I had a great conversation with Rita on her birthday. But yeah...I was still feeling pretty bad.

Then this guy jumped up, curled himself around my arm, and fell asleep. He doesn't usually sit with me like this. He'll lay on me when I am on the couch or in bed, but he isn't big on lap--or lap desk--sitting. But he jumped on up and made me smile. I'm still a bit glum, but he's good for what ails me.

"A nice day on the water"

For a number of reasons, yesterday was kind of rough. My parents sent a picture of the marker that has recently been installed at Ryan's grave. It looks nice enough, but that image and what it represents sent me (and the rest of the family) into some dark moments. I still click on the link to his online obituary and sometimes click through all the pictures. Last night, I found myself wanting more and did a google search for my brother's name. His name is relatively common (lots more Ryan Hanrahans than Heidi Hanrahans, for instance), so there were lots of hits, but other than copies of his obituary, nothing came up that was about/by/for him. After all, Ryan never did Facebook or had much of an online presence. Then I added the phrase "Rocky Point" and came across this link. It's just one post on a fishing site, but there's no doubt that Ryan wrote it.

"I took the kayak out this evening and did very well with bluefish with poppers on the fly. The fish were blitzing in schools about half an acre in size. I put down the fly rod and drifted below the surface with a spro bucktail and scored a 43 inch bass. my penn 4300 drag assembly blew apart during his first run but managed to land him after a long battle. It was a nice day on the water."

The entry is dated August 9, 2003...over 11 years ago. He would have been 28. I would have been about to turn 26. He was living with my parents and working in landscaping. I was in graduate school in Greensboro. I keep trying to remember more about what he was like then.What was our relationship like then? Was this a stretch when he was happy? It seems like it was. How did he feel about himself and his life then? What did he think about as he was out on the water? Why didn't he post on the site again? I wish there was more to read. More glimpses of him like this, doing what he used to love doing so much. There wasn't much fishing in the last years of his life, something that I always found so sad and frustrating.

But I do have this little paragraph to hold onto, a time when he was happy enough to actually write about it and share it. For that I am grateful.

The next place...

Back in January, I made a resolution of sorts to write a post for each day of 2014. To motivate myself and try to keep from falling deeper into a sort of emotional funk I was feeling even in January, I decided to do a (sort of cheesy) “year of thanks” theme. Though sometimes I had to do a catch-up post or two, I was right on track to make it to 365 posts. In my mind, it had been challenging year so far, the dental drama (which is still going on, by the way) serving as a perhaps silly symbol of that persistent funk. But through it all, the blog, which really made me focus on blessings in my life, had been a bright spot. So there I was, posting away, a bit proud of myself for keeping it up in the midst of some challenges…

…until July 26, the day I learned that my brother Ryan had died. Words fail to describe what this has been like. In a future post, I think I’ll share what I said about him at his funeral. For now, it’s enough to say that my brother was one of the most amazing people in the world. I’ll miss him forever. 

Since then, I just haven’t been able to come back to this silly little blog, though it’s been on my mind nearly every day. I can’t exactly explain why. Because every day since my brother died, even on the hardest days, there have been so many moments and people for which to be thankful: the old friends who reached out to tell me they were thinking of me; my brothers’ junior high teachers, who at the wake explained how much they loved Ryan and how clearly they remembered him, over 20 years after he was in their classes; the moment I looked up at the funeral and saw some of my dearest friends there; the drive home from New York, when this silly song came on the radio and made me smile and cry at the same time; attending a two-year-old’s birthday party, surrounded by life and love and happiness; fishing with my nephews, who would have made their uncle quite proud; the friends who provided me with distractions (board games, walks, movies) when I otherwise might have been wallowing in grief; the peace I feel on the aimless drives I find myself taking nearly every night; the gorgeous sunset I saw on my walk tonight. Even in these last few weeks, the hardest weeks of my life, I am reminded daily of how blessed I am. 

But still, I couldn’t get myself to come to this blog and post. It seemed, I don’t know…not right. I wasn’t ready. I am not even sure if I am ready now. One day last week, I spent the better portion of the day writing thank-you notes and letters to friends who have been so kind. Dozens and dozens of notes. I found comfort in that, telling myself, “This is a step towards…getting to the next step.” Not “closure,” since that won’t come for a long time, if ever—but what seemed to me an inevitable progression to some ineffable new place in this process. Get the notes done and the formality of it all (yes, I can see myself calling upon Dickinson) will be over. The ceremony, the ritual, the “this is what you do when someone dies.” And then I’d move on…to what, I didn’t know, but there I was, hoping I was almost there. What a fool.

That very night I had a dream…one of those typical dreams where characters and scenes and actions switch almost seamlessly. I found myself moving from one space to another, suddenly walking out onto the deck at my parents’ house. And there he was: Ryan, sitting with my nieces and nephews, almost like in the picture below, one of my favorite pictures of him, a picture that’s been on my mind since Tara first showed it to me while we were putting together photo collages for the wake. In the dream, it was immediately clear to me that he was alive—that we had all been mistaken and he was about to explain it all, how it was all a big misunderstanding. The look on his face—a warm smile—made it all clear. 

I don’t remember what happened next…I know I didn’t wake up right away, but the scene must have switched. And eventually, I did wake up--devastated. And I realized that “next place,” whatever it is…I wasn’t there yet. And I realized that this is how it will be. Steps forward, steps back, never knowing what will send you one way or another.

So no posts.

But today our department had its annual retreat, a sure-fire sign that the semester is about to start. I saw my dear colleagues and was reminded how lucky I am to work with them. How lucky I am to have work that I love, that always makes me happy. Tomorrow, faculty are to “report to campus,” meet the new first-year students, and attend convocation. On Monday, classes begin. I know in my bones that stepping back in the classroom will be soothing. I am so very eager to get back into the swing of things. It feels a bit like I am getting to some sort of next place.

I am also sure that there will be dark moments, steps backward. I still can’t wrap my mind around a world without Ryan in it. I still feel these gut punches when I least expect them. I still don’t know what to say to my poor shattered parents.

A new semester. I probably won’t make it to 365 posts for 2014. But I’ll see what I can do.