Understanding Glinda

 I think the feeling of "loss" is one of the worst kinds of pain. It certainly has been for me. And as far as loss goes, my experience of it has been pretty average. Many have experienced more, and many have had less. Which just goes to show that the experience of loss is so potent that getting hit with it in any form or degree can be enough to make someone say to themselves "I won't allow myself to feel this way again".  But in truth, loss is, for better and worse, here to stay. But if that's so, it's because the delights of life are here to stay, too (that means both the "smile to yourself as you're walking to the drug store" moments and the "so this is what everyone's been talking about for so long" moments of falling in love for the first time). 

And yet, it's tempting to try to lock our doors to loss. It's so tempting a thought that for some it can become a way of life, a daily practice of staving off loss by attempting to have nothing to lose (that's the great big form of it) or in unacknowledged refusal to look at old pictures of loved ones past for fear that recalling them will bring the ache of their absence.  But I think I'm beginning to come to terms with the fact that this is a lost cause. Because the only way to prevent the pangs of loss is to steel ourselves to feel nothing when we encounter life's joyful surprises. It's a life of saying "no". "No" to experiences that may bring future happiness (submitting resumes, going on job interviews) and "no" to cooing like an idiot over ridiculous big eyed puppies. 

It also means (if we are acclimating ourselves to living in a world without future joy and therefore the pain when that joy seems no longer present) that whatever comforts and pleasure we currently have in our lives become that much more precious and we will have many dreadful days ahead as those remaining joys break, or chip, or lose their meaning because they've been dredged up too often and exploited for their potency until their color is eaten away like old photos bleached by the sun through an unshaded window. And we won't have the comfort of knowing there is a treasure trove of happy surprises awaiting us, because we have told ourselves they just lead to more pain, so even when they do happen they can feel tarnished with the the guilt of indiscretion (the way I feel after eating a bag of "Tate's Bakeshop" Walnut Chocolate Chip Cookies. 

I've wrestling with these thoughts about loss particularly lately because eighteen old cassette tapes arrived in the mail from my mother, and while I've been really looking forward to listening to them, and to transferring them to digital form so they can escape the ravages that time takes on ribbons of forty year old tape, I admit that I've also been worried about the loss I will inevitably feel. I've been worried that the level of loss awakened will be like Pandora's box in rectangular form with two little movable gears at its center. This is not the first time I've wrestled with this particular instance of weighing the potential joy against the feelings loss, but it is the first time I was able to overcome those fears long enough to purchase a tape converter and coax my mother out to her garage where a very small number of my things still remain, so that I can have these tapes with me again. 

And it's the first time in thirty years I've heard these particular sounds, bringing back the past. My childhood. Is it painful? Yes. Hearing these tapes makes we want to peel back the curtain and step back into that sparsely furnished apartment in Cedar Rapids where I lived with my mom, as she recorded me telling her stories, and interviewed me about movies I'd just seen and was still bubbling over with enthusiasm for. It makes me want to shower that twenty five year old, newly single mother with mountains of love and encouragement which might lighten up the journey ahead. And it also makes me laugh, to hear the untrained sound of my four year old voice, and fills me with admiration for my mom, and gives me glimpses of the truth that she had a life completely separate of me, and pangs and hopes that had nothing to do with me. That we were both living lives in which the other had a crucial supporting role. It's an experience that has awakened feelings of guilt for things I did as a child later, ways in which I strayed from the purity and untouched hope I had for the days ahead, but it's also brought supreme comfort because I hear in myself at four all the things that I still am. My vocal patterns, my tendency to dive into things head first, my love of anything connected to story... it's all still here. The essence of that kid is still in me, inevitably changed, but not lost. And while other people appearing or mentioned in the tapes, like my Grandma Foye and my Aunt Mary, have passed on-- others, like my mother are still here, also changed, and yet the same.  And this experience reminds me that I can and should shower appreciation on her today, and acknowledge what she's given me, and be proud of us for getting through what was to come, relatively uncompromised. And I'm blessed with the satisfaction of being able to gift this experience back to her in a less fragile form than it was, so she can listen without fear of breaking the tape. 

So, loss. Thinking about it this way I'm reminded of the ancient Japanese philosophy about finding beauty in things repaired, quietly bringing attention to the unnameable fluttery pangs and regal strength in those cracks and to the vase as a whole, with those cracks. And I'm also aware of the fact that I cannot give shortcuts to this lesson in anyone else's life, because not only is it an experience they have to have from theirselves, but their experience will more than likely be completely different from mine, and to think that other people's experiences are limited to and/or equal to my own, is to entertain a dangerous naivety. 

But it does make me think about a certain pink chiffon gowned witch with voice like a strawberry milkshake, sloshy and sweet. And her words at the end of the 1939 film no longer seem as much like a cop out as they used to. Not only couldn't she have convinced Dorothy to avoid the yellow brick road and just click her hells at the get go, but she shouldn't have. Because to do so would deny her all the experiences of the journey. She did exactly what she was meant to. She encouraged one of our most plucky and hopeful heroes to take another step, come what may.