We Want to Wish You a Merry Chrismukkah

I came downstairs the other morning to find our Hanukkiah sitting on the living room floor, beside Carl’s work backpack.

How sweet, I thought. He’s getting our Hanukkah decorations out to make sure my holiday doesn’t get dwarfed by Christmas. This has been our routine for a few years. I go crazy making sure all his grandmother’s hand-tatted angels find their way onto our Christmas tree branches. He counts the Hanukkah candles leftover from last year, then orders enough from Amazon to last us through the whole eight nights.

Turns out, I was half right.

Carl retrieved our Hanukkiah for our use, but also to light during the Christmas Eve service at the Unitarian congregation where he serves as minister. For the first time since 1978, the first night of Hanukkah intersects with Christmas Eve.

Most families might not notice this cosmic coincidence, determined by a lunar cycle that means Gregorian dates for Jewish holidays shift yearly. In our family, we can’t help but notice. Carl grew up celebrating Christmas. I celebrated Hanukkah. When we married at my family’s synagogue more than nine years ago, we chose Judaism as the dominant religion in our home.

As if the Judeo-Christian complexity of our December holidays weren’t enough, there’s also the minister issue. This is arguably the busiest time of Carl’s professional year, although he might disagree. All I know is that on Dec. 24, he’s officiating at a wedding, followed by two Christmas Eve services.

He’ll be back at his pulpit by 10 a.m. on Christmas Day, a time when most normal people are unwrapping presents or eating breakfast casseroles. This means we will not eat Christmas Eve dinner together, nor will we have time to unwrap presents on Christmas morning, as we have done for the entire twelve years we’ve been a couple.

On Christmas Day, we’re hosting a lunch for his mother, my sister, her husband, and their three kids, all of whom keep kosher. I will be cooking for hours beginning Friday night. As I peel two pounds of grapes for Carl’s grandmother’s fruit salad recipe, I will no doubt be channeling my Bubbie Fran: Eat. Eat. Eat. This is appropriate because Jews will outnumber Christians by 3 to 1 at our holiday table.

I would be lying if I wrote that I felt at peace this holiday season. The darkest time of year is hard on us. But I’m trying not to get swept up in the holiday crazy, to become aware when I feel consumerism’s pull. Sometimes I get it right. The other day, when a man honked at me near Walgreens, I flipped him a peace sign.

Still, I truly lost it earlier this week when a large package arrived for Carl. He’d ordered himself the exact same monastery made meditation cushion I’d purchased for his Christmas gift. This means it’s Dec. 22, his mother’s flight arrives tonight, and I still don’t know what I’m getting the man who wants nothing for Christmas. (Lump of coal? Lump of coal?)

Still, it’s amazing to me that I even have money to purchase holiday gifts. I grew up in a family where money was scarce, and sometimes I didn’t know if I would receive presents on Hanukkah. They were always small gifts, always something I needed. It goes without saying, but I’ll say it anyway: I wish I’d cherished everything my mother ever gave me.

Now my mother-in-law lavishes me with gifts, which she wraps in Hanukkah paper. She spoils me beyond words, and I appreciate her consciousness at a time when it’s 100 percent more likely that the receipt checker at Costco will wish me a “Merry Christmas” instead of “Happy Hanukkah” or miracle-of-miracles Chanukah sameach.

My mother-in-law still lives in the small South Carolina community where she took her son to a big steeple Baptist church a few times a week. Where she finds Hanukkah wrapping paper, I will never know. I do know that I’ll be making her and Carl blueberry blintzes for breakfast on Christmas Day, before they scurry off to church. (Thanks, Bubbie Fran.)

I also know we create refuge by sharing in each other’s traditions, rather than foisting traditions on each other.  I still do not know how to live without shouldering other people’s expectations. But that’s what New Year’s resolutions are for.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Meeting the Dead in Dreamland

“One does not become enlightened by imagining figures of light, but by making the darkness conscious.” – Carl Jung

I woke up at 3 a.m. from a nightmare that my sister’s infant son had gone missing. It was a terrifying dream, full of caves, masked men, and all consuming darkness. In the dream, we never found the baby, but I searched for him until I awoke to heart palpitations. Then I couldn’t go back to sleep. My mind wandered to the worst, worst case scenarios I could imagine, to the kinds of unfathomable losses that no one ever wants to think about. The kind that I cannot even bring myself to write.

You see, I’m afraid if I write them down, I will make them real.

The thing about surviving an earth shattering loss is that it opens you up to the probability of future earth shattering losses. Nothing is safe. Nothing is permanent. Nothing lasts forever. Death traces a shadow across every good thing. Even happiness feels false. You learn to distrust joy. You learn to distrust peace. Life can feel like a never ending production of “Hamlet,” which (big surprise) is the play that formed the basis of my master’s thesis.

Before I did my MFA, I immersed myself in what is arguably the most depressing literary text ever written, a tragedy centering on two children maddened by grief. I was obsessed with Ophelia –– motherless, fatherless, suicidal Ophelia. I, too, was a little mad at this time. I was afraid of everything. Driving at night. Rain. Walking from my car to our house. Most of all, I was afraid of Carl’s death. I thought about it all the time. What would I do if he died? How would I cope?

I needed the answers to these questions because I needed to know I could survive beyond him. I read “Hamlet” and wrote about Ophelia for hours each week. Still, I wasn’t soothed. If Carl was late coming home, I convinced myself he’d been in a car accident. I’d call him repeatedly until he answered the phone –– perplexed, but patient. Sometimes, I’d awaken in the middle of the night just to check that he was still breathing. Sometimes I still do.

But, at a certain point, it’s reckless to allow fear to pollute the present. At a certain point we have to live our lives. At a certain point, “Hamlet” stops being fun and starts being a depressing tragedy that the students I now teach don’t want to read. So I started writing about my own grief, and about my mother.

On the page, I found I could resurrect her. I could bring us both back to life. I found a therapist who taught me how to recognize intrusive thoughts, and how to distinguish catastrophic thinking from reality. I recommitted myself to the meditation practice that has sustained me for the past decade. I found my way into an MFA program and kept writing my way back to my mother, which ultimately saved me.

Yet, death still haunts my dreams.

Last night’s dream was the second baby dream I’ve had in a week. The first dream goes like this: Carl and I awaken to cries coming from a back bedroom of our house. We find a boy –– presumably our son –– standing in a dark room. He’s wailing and holding tiny hooks in his hands, the kinds of hooks that we use to hang our Christmas tree ornaments. Given that we’re currently childless, I’m astounded to see this beautiful, blonde boy in our home. But removing the hooks from the boy’s hands feels like a life-or-death situation. I’m terrified he’ll swallow a hook. I’m only a mother for five seconds, and already I’m afraid of losing our son. Already, I’m thinking of all the seemingly innocuous things that can kill him.

In the dream, panic swept over me. It wasn’t an omygod I’m-not-ready-to-be-a-mother! kind of panic. It was an ohmygod my house is a death trap! kind of panic. And now I’ve had a second child loss dream.

Carl spent years studying Jungian dream work. He’s meditating right now, but If I interrupted him, he’d probably tell me that the lost child –– or the almost dead child –– stand for a hidden aspect of myself. Some buried subconscious fragment is breaking through to the surface. He’d say the panic connects with the difficult emotional work of knowing ourselves, of being truthful about who we are and what we want in life. There are no answers in dream work, only questions. But I think he’d also tell me that darkness cannot be separated from light, that facing the darkness is what makes us truly conscious.

I interpret the dreams from the edge of mother loss. A mother who loses a child never stops being a mother, but that implication is unavoidable, and it complicates the grief that mothers who lose children feel.

My grandmother lost two children. The first loss was her firstborn infant son, who died at four months. The second loss was my mother. She died on April 7. Three years later, my grandmother fell into a coma on that same day. She took her last breath on April 8.

I was with her when she died. I spent the entire day holding her hand, reading Rumi to her because his words felt like the only appropriate response. Watching her die made me less afraid of death, more open to the beauty that can arise from our most feared moments.

I read to her from “Say I Am You”: I am all orders of being, the circling galaxy, / the evolutionary intelligence, the lift, / and the falling away. What is, and what isn’t. The poem’s images focus on interconnection, on how we are all dust and sunlight and stars, on how everything that is alive comes from what is also dead.

One of the greatest gifts of my sister’s children is how they bring the dead back to life. My mother is dead, but she continues to live through this genealogy. My sister and I both resemble her, but I can’t see her features in us the same way I can see them in her grandchildren. My eldest nephew has her smile and sense of humor. My niece has her courage and strength. My dream child had her eyes. Even in the darkness, I could see them clear as day.

The Darkest Time of Year

I never liked Thanksgiving. One year when I was home from college, my mother humored my holiday angst. She made salmon and lentil soup because I didn’t eat red meat or poultry. Then she let me stay home from a family gathering. I told her I hated celebrating the European colonization of the United States, that it felt like celebrating Hitler’s election to chancellor. When I shared this information with her, she sat us both down on the white couch in her living room. She looked me straight in the eyes and said, “The holidays are about family and for being grateful for what you have.”

A year later, we celebrated her last Thanksgiving, although we didn’t know it at the time. This was the first and only time I ever cooked with her during a holiday. I don’t remember everything we made, just how comforted I felt to be with her in the kitchen. How safe and peaceful I felt beside her. I wish I could say I savored the moment, that I felt grateful. But, I didn’t know she was dying then. I was only 20. I thought assembling a salad from a bag mix, then adding raisins and chopped apples, was a high culinary achievement. The moments that passed between us are only special in retrospect.

Since her death, I have wanted to avoid Thanksgiving altogether. I have spent it abroad. I have spent it alone. I have spent it playing Monopoly and eating Thai food with my husband. I have spent it hiking in Shenandoah National Park with our two dogs. In this way, I may be dishonoring my mother’s legacy, since I often choose to retreat from family and tradition. But family gatherings stress me out because I focus on what is missing, on her absence. It’s easier for me to do my own thing, then to embrace other people’s expectations of what the holidays should be. I’m happier this way. I am more honest about myself.

This year was harder than I expected. I agreed to participate in a traditional gathering at my aunt’s house because I am grateful for her. She’s had a rough year. I wanted to support her. I texted my father on Thanksgiving to wish him a happy holiday. He called me a few seconds later and talked at length about everything going wrong in his life. He never asked, “How are you?” He never asked, “What must it be like for you to celebrate holidays without your mother?”

My mother raised me. After she left him, he beat her in front of my sister and me. For many years, she was my only parent. Despite our past, I love my father dearly, primally. Relationships are complex webs. He has worked hard on himself. He is not the person he used to be. I know these past few weeks have been horrible for him. But I have felt triggered by my father during this election. He supported Donald Trump, which makes me feel unsafe, and brings back memories of past abuse. On Thursday, I also felt abandoned and irritated by his lack of empathy. I talked to my husband about it, then I made mushrooms and polenta and drove to my aunt’s house. I spent most of Thanksgiving holed up in a bedroom with my sister, who needed to nurse her infant son, also known as My Precious. Still, my bad mood lingered over the weekend. I do not begrudge anyone their holiday cheer. Right now, I’m focusing on getting through the holidays.

That said, I seek comfort during this darkest time of my year by remembering my mother’s emphasis on gratitude. This is how I lift myself out of sadness. This is how I honor her. I have tried keeping gratitude journals, but I always forget to write in them. (There is still a gratitude journal from 2009 sitting on my night table). So I pause each day to consider something for which I feel grateful. Some days, I have to dig deep. On these days, I am grateful for working radiators and leftovers in the fridge. Other days, I am grateful to live within driving distance of my sister and best friend, who have seen me through the worst of my grief. This weekend, I felt grateful for Carl. We spent all of Friday watching “Gilmore Girls: A Year in the Life” and he knows the show better than any of my friends’ husbands. He even predicted the ending, which I didn’t like. Still, I am grateful for a husband who can spend 20 minutes discussing why my dream ending is more feminist than the actual ending.

I am also grateful to have found a doctor who identified the underlying hormonal imbalances causing my Hashimoto’s. I’m grateful for his hope that I will be able to conceive and sustain a pregnancy after one year of treatment. Always, I am grateful for my niece and nephews, who continue my mother’s legacy in ways she never imagined. Most of all, I’m grateful to have been her daughter.

To Gerda

This week Michelle Obama spoke out against the Republican nominee for president, and his alleged sexual assault of women. She implored Americans to “get on social media” and share “your own story of why this election matters, why it should matter for all people of conscience in this country.”  This blog post is inspired by Obama’s New Hampshire speech and “Dedicate Your No-Trump Vote”  a website created by novelist Julianna Baggott. I’ve been reading posts daily from writers, humanitarians, clergy, and other extraordinary citizens. They are responding to hatred with hope and demonstrating the power of storytelling in shaping a compassionate America, the America I know, and the America my mother believed in. 

I wasn’t supposed to read the letter. My mother kept it in a dresser drawer, tucked beneath her sweaters. Those sweaters still held her rainwater scent even though she’d been dead for a week. I was 21, alone, and desperate to find my way back to her. I wanted to understand how a juvenile diabetic could die while wearing an insulin pump. I needed a clue, an answer to this impossible question. But what I really wanted was my mother returned to me, as if her death had been a misunderstanding or bad dream. I thought I could find her in the possessions she left behind. So I rifled through her drawers, until I came upon the letter.

My mother had typed it in 1998, four years after an experimental organ transplant saved her life when I was 13. In 1994 surgeons placed a dead man’s kidney and pancreas inside her body. The surgery suppressed the effects of juvenile diabetes on her kidneys, which had begun to fail. She’d suspected her donor was a man she’d read about in The Baltimore Sun. He’d withdrawn $50 from an ATM after leaving work late. An unknown assailant knocked him to the ground, left him dying as night faded to dawn. He was not a registered organ donor. It was his mother who said, “yes” when hospital staff asked. Amid her grief, this mother thought of other suffering families. She thought of how her son could live on in another person’s heart or corneas or kidneys. She thought of the hope he could bring to people she would never know. She did the extraordinary. She shared her child with strangers. Her name was Gerda, by the way.

The letter I found beneath my mother’s sweaters was the first letter she sent to Gerda. I’m not sure why my mother saved a copy, but I am not surprised she reached out to connect. Gerda’s loss of her child was the worst thing my mother could imagine, even worse than dying before her own children. She needed to share her gratitude. She needed to say, “thank you” for Gerda’s generosity, which allowed my mother to live seven years longer than she’d expected, allowed her to mother my sister and me.

In that time, a friendship bloomed between these two mothers. I remember cards coming in the mail, and long phone calls. I remember how my mother exclaimed, “It’s Gerda!” when the name flashed on our caller ID, as if Gerda were a member of our own family.  When I deleted my mother’s e-mail account a few months after her death, I discovered an e-mail from Gerda. I don’t remember what the e-mail said, only that I replied. I delivered the bad news, then shut down my mother’s e-mail forever. I did not reach back out to Gerda until 2011. I wanted to understand her generosity. I wanted to know her story. I needed to thank her too.

Like my mother and me, Gerda was Jewish. She lived in Berlin when Hitler came to power in 1933. Her family fled Berlin for Holland in 1939, never imagining that Nazism would trail them across the Continent. After Holland fell to Nazi occupation, a clergy family hid Gerda in the countryside. At night she slept in the forest, not knowing the whereabouts of her own family, not knowing if she’d survive the night. Her parents died in a death camp, but Gerda avoided imprisonment. She emigrated to the United States after the war, attended college and graduate school, began her own family.

I often think about what would have happened if Gerda hadn’t survived, if she hadn’t encountered strangers willing to risk their own lives to protect a denigrated class of people –– my people. Would my mother have died at 41 instead of 48? Who would I have become without her to raise me? My mother believed in miracles –– she thought I was a miracle. She thought her entire life was one continuous miracle. She thought Gerda’s survival was a miracle. I believe in interconnection. I believe one action affects another action in a great, unknowable continuum. I believe kindness ripples through our lives, across generations and decades and continents. I believe Gerda’s experience of being saved by courageous people lit the spark that allowed her to save other lives many years later. This is why I dedicate my No-Trump vote to her, to Gerda.

Today, when I hear a presidential candidate talk about banning Muslims, or deporting undocumented people, I think of her. When I read of first-grader Abdul Aziz being beaten on the school bus for being Muslim, and his family fleeing the United States for Pakistan because they no longer feel safe here, I think of her. When I read of hate crimes against Muslims escalating, I think of her. When I hear a presidential candidate stumble over denouncing David Duke and the Ku Klux Klan, I think of 1939 Berlin. And I think of Gerda’s family escaping to Holland.

When I hear white supremacist hate speech normalize violence and sexual assault and the torture of human beings, I think of Gerda. I think of her separated from her loved ones, hiding from the unimaginable. I think of her sleeping in the woods, wondering whether her parents were alive or dead, not knowing if she would survive the night. I imagine her heart opening in that darkness, her face turning toward the stars’ distant light. Even in her most terrifying moments, she knew the saving power of kindness. She knew only hope can conquer fear.

On Speaking Up

Two weeks ago, I sat in my endocrinologist’s office and waited … and waited … and … waited. I had an 8:45 a.m. appointment. He entered the room at 9:25 a.m., more than 30 minutes late.

Then he rustled through my latest labs, which showed a worrisome increase in thyroid stimulating hormone. Despite my efforts to lower TSH through an autoimmune diet, exercise, meditation, and supplements, I came to that appointment with a hard conclusion: Starting medication would be the kindest thing I could do for my body.

Twice during this appointment, my endocrinologist raised his voice at me. The first time, it happened when I named my ideal TSH level.

I chose this level after researching blogs, books, and studies about Hashimoto’s, hypothyroidism, pregnancy, and miscarriage. The doctor made it clear he did not care how I had arrived at this number I chose. He invalidated my knowledge, which I came by honestly and with professional expertise.

When I heard the sharpness in his voice, I felt tears welling, but I breathed. I remembered the metta prayer. I placed my right hand on my heart, so that I would remain calm and unemotional, given how gender bias negatively impacts the way male doctors may relate to female patients. (How dare I speak at all … )

The second time he spoke sharply was when our conversation veered toward medications. I expressed my discomfort in taking medications that contain gluten, sugar, or lactose. The most popular thyroid medications contain at least one of these ingredients. I asked my doctor to confirm that the prescription he was writing would respect the boundaries I needed to set.

“I don’t have time to answer your questions,” he replied, his voice rising again. He may as well have said, Shut up. Because that’s the silencing implication of his words, which he spoke at a volume I perceived as disrespectful.

For me, being silenced is worse than being yelled at or not being listened to. It’s a complete invalidation of my voice, of my right to speak on behalf of myself. Silencing says, You don’t matter. Your ideas don’t matter.

Later, I looked up the medication’s ingredients myself. (In less than two minutes and without an MD, I found them on the manufacturer’s web site.)

The next morning, I called my endocrinologist’s office because I needed to address the silencing. I needed to say silencing is an unacceptable communication tactic, as far as I’m concerned. I needed to know it wouldn’t happen again.

So I said I felt frustrated by my appointment. I said I felt disrespected by my doctor. I said my previous experiences with him had been positive, and that his behavior seemed out-of-character. I asked for assurance that I could trust him to be attentive and respectful at future appointments. The woman with whom I spoke said she would pass this information along to the office manager, who would call me back.

I’m still waiting for that call back.

I guess I shouldn’t be surprised by further silence, but I am. I’m surprised because I tend to expect the best in people. I’m disappointed, too. I’m also angry.

Even as I write this, I feel my heart clenching, my throat tightening. I want to scream, just so I will be listened to. Just so I will be heard. That was all I wanted from my endocrinologist that morning. A little understanding.

But I also know I’m extraordinarily lucky. Because I had a mother who taught me my voice mattered. She taught me to be skeptical of physicians, to do my own research, to ask my questions, and to fight for respect if it was denied.

My mother became a patient advocate after her experimental organ transplant in 1994, at a time when the field was still relatively new. Her own experiences taught her that advocacy is what all patients need in a healthcare system that, at its most broken, can be deeply dehumanizing, especially to women.

The worst part of navigating an autoimmune disease isn’t doctors who behave badly. It’s not having my mother beside me. It’s having to go alone to doctor’s appointments when I feel anxious and scared.

But the best part is learning to see myself as powerful, even in situations when a doctor’s behaviors intend to deny me power. My mother taught me to get back up when I felt knocked down, to keep going. She taught me I deserved kindness and respect. She taught me not to accept anything less, especially from men.

I don’t know if I’ll continue seeing this endocrinologist. There are many, many endocrinologists in the sea, and I’m resolved to find one who can handle a patient like me, a patient who does her own research and who speaks for herself. That’s the only kind of doctor who deserves my money, trust, and time.

Last week, I went to my first appointment with a functional medicine physician. We sipped tea in his office, and he listened. He showed me a chart with all possible medications and their ingredients. He ordered much more detailed tests than my endocrinologist has ever asked for. He told me he has “a passion” for Hashimoto’s because his wife and daughters have the same disease.

I felt comfortable telling him how I dreamed of my mother the night before our appointment. I shared that, in my dream, my mother was on the phone with my endocrinologist. She was shouting at him to order a very specific endocrine test, unrelated to thyroid disorders. I told him the test she requested was now on his new lab order. He just smiled.

I don’t know what will happen next, or what my future tests will reveal. But for the first time in a year, I am not afraid of the unknown. I feel understood. I feel heard. I feel safe.

 

Blogs That Have Helped Me The Most: 

 

Books That Have Helped Me The Most: 

 

 

Grief Observed: Lessons from Binge-Watching “Six Feet Under”

Carl and I started watching Six Feet Under this summer. This is my first time watching. When the pilot aired in 2001, I knew my mother’s death was inevitable, but neither of us could face that truth. We pretended she’d recover, that kidney failure in a type-one diabetic was just a temporary thing. I, along with much of the nation, had also watched the twin towers collapse on live television. Death hung over everything that year, but I thought Six Feet was weird and morbid. I wanted nothing to do with it.

Carl, who lived across the country from me, was starting seminary. He loved the show, all its rituals and questions about life and death and truth. He watched weekly with his friends. At the time, we didn’t know each other. But back in 2001, one of my good friends was a Six Feet fan, and I’d hear about the show’s weekly episodes from her. She loved Six Feet because her father worked as an undertaker in central Pennsylvania. Funerals were their family’s business, and it had been that way for generations. When my mother died in April 2002, this friend was studying abroad. But that didn’t stop her from reaching out.

The day she learned of my mother’s death, she sent me yellow roses and a card. In the subsequent weeks, she left me thoughtful voicemails. She responded to my e-mails without missing a beat. Never once did she attempt to comfort me with irritating platitudes or vague offers of prayer. She understood there was no reason why my mother had to suffer, or why I had to face the rest of my life without a mother to guide me.

What I needed was to get through each moment, each day. Through it all, this friend stood by me. We didn’t know the term holding space back then, but that is what she did for me. She held space for my grief, and she didn’t flee, like many others did. I don’t blame them. Grief is terrifying, especially to twenty-one year-olds, many of whom have never even lost a pet. My mother’s death, and my own grief, reminded others of what they stood to lose, and many could not bear to look.

One of the reasons why I think Carl and I are drawn to Six Feet now– we binge-watched half of season four yesterday –– is because death feels like our family business, too. We both lost parents young. As adolescents and young adults, we saw our parents lose control of their bodies and hope. We stood at their funerals. We received diplomas and awards without them watching. Any child we have will grow up never knowing two essential grandparents. We will mourn our parents again and again. There is no finish line for grief.

Had I watched Six Feet back in 2001, I’d know how grief “comes and goes,” as Nate says in season four. I’d know grief feels more like an ocean than a highway. I’d know how unexpressed grief leads to greater pain, and that numbing through sex or drugs or alcohol does not lessen our suffering, but only ushers in greater despair. I’d know death stops for no one, but it is also not contagious.

I hope I’d understand that, at 21, I could not bring my mother’s body back, no matter how long and deeply I mourned. But I could return to her essence through my work as a writer and teacher and friend. Now I feel my mother’s spirit –– not her ghost, but the core of who she was –– when I hold space for others. When I make room for another person’s grief, I make room for my mother. In this way, I honor her death and her life. Rather than confining her to a grave or a memory, I make her expansive, like my own heart, which is one half hers, still beating, still alive, in the world.

 

 

On Not Forgiving

 I had every intention to read Desmond Tutu’s book on forgiveness this summer. I carried it with me on trips, and on two 12-hour train rides. It sat on shelves and desktops and bedside tables, alluring me with its cover image of a flower blooming from a tree stump. But between May and August, I did not, not even for a moment, crack open this book. You’d think I’d have no trouble with Desmond Tutu or forgiveness. I meditate. I practice Yoga. I’m married to a minister who has preached from this very book. In fact, it’s his copy that I’ve been toting around all summer. But I just can’t do it. I can’t open this book, and I’m not sure why.

At its core, I’m okay with forgiveness. I understand that sometimes forgiveness is more about the person seeking forgiveness than it is about the person offering forgiveness. I understand that forgiveness can be a first step toward moving on. I understand that certain things are difficult to forgive, and others are impossible. I agree with Cheryl Strayed, who as Sugar wrote, “Forgiveness doesn’t sit there like a pretty boy in a bar. Forgiveness is the old fat guy you have to haul up a hill.”  Yes, this is more how I see it, and I know I’ve spent years hauling my own old fat guy up and down hills that felt like mountains. I know there are many things I’ve forgiven, and a few I simply cannot forgive. And I’m finally giving myself permission to let the Desmond Tutu book go, to be okay with not reading it, to be okay with not forgiving.

Disease is one thing I’m not forgiving. Disease has taken too many people I love, too many bodies, too many unfinished lives. My husband and I both lost parents young. We know loss intimately. We are both sad this weekend because we are sitting with some bad news. We are sitting with the knowledge that disease is out there in the world, claiming lives, hurting people, eviscerating families, destroying dreams. And I’m not forgiving it. Not today, not tomorrow, and maybe not ever.

And I think I’m being more true to myself about this one thing than I’ve ever been in my whole life about anything. Allowing myself to be angry, allowing myself to feel the power of my heart clamping down on itself, is more liberating than saying I forgive you.

Years ago, I took a graduate class in liberation theology, and I read Beverly Wildung Harrison, who in “The Power of Anger in the Work of Love” argues that anger can be a radical act of compassion toward ourselves and others. Our anger connects us to injustice. Our anger resists oppression. Our anger harnesses energy toward change. I remember the night I first read Harrison. I was sitting in an armchair at my mother-in-law’s house, and I started to shake, as if my body were opening to a glorious new truth. Harrison granted me permission to hold onto anger, to interrogate it, to investigate all its endless shapes. She allowed me to get angry, to be angry, and not to rest until I understood where my anger wanted me to go.

This summer I’ve thought hard about a few things I am not comfortable forgiving. These things are, not surprisingly, charged with anger. I’ve questioned this anger’s roots. I’ve questioned who forgiveness belongs to and what power it has in our lives. I’ve questioned what forgiveness can actually change. Maybe that’s why I’ve carried the Desmond Tutu book around like a map, as if it could lead me to answers where I know none presently exist. All summer long, I’ve also encountered the same words by Ranier Maria Rilke. I’ve found them in essays and articles. They have followed me to dharma talks and conferences and lectures. I cannot escape them. These are the words that won’t leave me alone:

“Be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart, and try to love the questions themselves, like locked rooms and like books that are now written in a very foreign tongue. … the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps you will then gradually, without noticing it, live along some distant day into the answer.”

Maybe the Desmond Tutu book feels too much like an answer, too reductive and too easy. Maybe I don’t like the idea of books about forgiveness. Maybe they feel too commodified, too capitalistic. Maybe I am completely wrong about this whole thing, and would only know how wrong I am if I read the book. Maybe I am clinging to anger, and to not forgiving, because I’m intoxicated by a false sense of control. Maybe I am more in love with questions than answers. Maybe questions feel like hope, and a life unfurling toward all its dreams. Maybe answers are not really answers at all. Maybe they’re just dead ends.