There are so many things that I have been wanting to write about, but I can't seem to find the time or the motivation--Derek's birthday, the entire month of June, my last credits of my undergraduate degree, getting accepted to graduate school, ditching my plans for Arizona to move to Seattle, starting graduate classes, preparing the Cockroft house for sale, preparing my belonging to move cross-country; clearly, the list goes on and on.
So that's it. Just like that, a month passes, and life is completely different. Sometimes I wonder how so many months could have passed where I felt the same; I felt like I had some sort of control over the situations, and I was okay. Now, I can barely get through a week without feeling like everyday is some major life event.
Maybe that's the way that it should be--never boring, always busy. Is this "carpe diem"?
Derek's first tattoo spelled "carpe diem" in a curly font, written inside of a chartreuse ribbon, representing Muscular Dystrophy. He wanted to remind himself and others that we can and should "seize the day" despite the world's best efforts to bring us down--everyone has challenges that weigh on us and keep us from living out loud. For Derek, Muscular Dystrophy was that challenge, and he woke to meet it everyday.
As I was browsing through Barnes and Noble today, I fell into the Poetry section, of course. I was pretty disapointed to have not found it until probably an hour-and-a-half into our trip there, soon before we would be leaving. Regardless, I browsed the meager one shelf of books and found poems by Emerson, Frost, Elliot, Shakespeare--all of the well-knowns. Near the bottom, there was a series of crayon-colored books by Mattie J.T. Stepanek, a young man who died of Muscular Dystrophy very young, in the early 2000s. Derek had one of those Heartsongs books on his shelves.
Katlin, Derek, and I have been talking about getting matching tattoos for years. In August, we finally decided--Katlin and I would each get our own variations of "carpe diem" tattoos with Muscular Dystrophy ribbons to match Derek's; he wasn't feeling up to being inked again, but he wanted to at least be there. Our appointment was for September 2nd. Six days after Derek died, we still showed up for the appointment.
These thoughts are so scattered. Am I living my life to the fullest? I thought I learned in Italy to slow down; don't rush. What does it mean "to the fullest" anyhow? As if there were some capstone of "yes, my life is complete." Maybe that is it--striving for a sense of completeness, a sense of feeling accomplished at the end of the day.
Here I am at the end of yet another of the quickly passing days. This isn't any day though. This is the last night with the family that has really taken me in during the past year in the house that was my refuge this past fall. Though I'll be around for a little while longer, this house is not "home" without them here. Though the guitar still hangs on the wall in the room where we have sung and prayed; though the kitchen still shines in warm orange and yellow; though the bathrooms are freshly furnished with the sinks that we all worked on; though the garden still blooms over fresh mulch and lined with stones that we poured ourselves into; though I have been here for such a short time, it is just a house, and it is not complete without them here. I have learned so well that "family" goes further than blood-relation, further than daily encounters, further than walls. Family is loving the people you are with as though they were always going to be with you.
Tonight, Kim said we needed to break a glass in the leaving of the home. She held it at the stem, with a paper bag around it, and the girls each grasped the wooden spoon, gently beating at the glass like a pinata until we heard the shink of the pieces against one another. Kim said it's a tradition to do this because it shows that family and relationship means more than walls or possessions.
And this is why I need to move on. I can't bear to be near the walls that held Derek and I in for so many years; it's time for me to go--to not be here in Southwestern Pennsylvania where all of these things remind me of everything good and everything bad. I need to move on because I've got everything that I need within me--the spirit of God, the love of friends, the memories of a brother. These things will not go away, no matter how many miles there are between me and the walls that I was raised in.
I thought that was the end, but it's not. I once took part in a wall-raising. We were volunteering with Habitat for Humanity in Greensboro, North Carolina. All week, we built walls. Finally, we started assembling. Many people all in a line, pulling and lifting and shifting and placing these walls into what would soon be a family's home. It's not about the walls themselves; it's about the people that raise them, just as when I say "the walls that I was raised in," I mean the people that have raised me. Too often I rush to my bedroom and focus on the walls of home, when really, what I love about it is all of the people there.
Looking through Derek's facebook, I came across a photo of Katlin, Derek, and I on his 20th birthday. One of those survey questions was in the comment box. Derek had answered to, "What does this photo say about you?"
"Family comes first."
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