Reflections
Sometimes I give myself permission to let old stuff enter my life again. I felt that way as I started reading Anne Lamott's book, "Traveling Mercies," wherein she described in heart-breaking detail the grief she endured at the death of her childhood friend. There have been other books that have affected me deeply, but when Lamott opened up her heart to us, her readers, I realized she had touched a very painful spot.
She said there is no set time to end grieving. It is not time that heals; it is the grieving itself. Once again I recognized synchronicity, the idea that when events happen at the same time, it may not be chance. Rather these events should be regarded as important, even meaningful. Therefore,when I looked at the date in my appointment book, I was not surprised to note that it was April 11, the birth date of my first son, Fred.
It dawned on me that I have not come to the end of my grieving for my son's loss, although it is now almost 29 years since his death. No surprise again that I felt his presence when we vacationed at Death Valley a few weeks ago. It was here that Fred experienced the grim beauty of those ageless mountains. Perhaps he understood the infinitely small amount of time that humans have existed on earth compared to the thousands of years it had taken for the violent changes to occur that created the arid, gray wonder that is Death Valley today. Despite its morbid name, we read that only one pioneer lost his life attempting to cross its dry, salt-covered flats.
Ironically, the night that Fred died, nature played one of its deadly tricks, for the skies opened and poured down torrents of rain that caused the youthful group of campers to decide to leave for home. Sadly, some of them never made it. Lamott found solace for many of her life's sorrows in drugs and alcohol. But she eventually awakened to the belief that there was a God who cared for her. I envy her that belief, but like her Jewish college friend who could not accept a god that didn't stop the Holocaust, I, too, shun acceptance. When children die by the millions, or even the thousands, as in Kosovo, there is always a destruction that pervades the soul.
The war in Kosovo is another kind of horror, bred from hatred we label "ethnic cleansing." Out of an old distrust of differences between people comes the utter misery and death we have witnessed in all our media. The pain is so familiar, just a different name, another part of the globe for us to learn. But, oh, the despair in the eyes of all, especially the children, who cannot understand why this is happening to them.
Like others I have listened to, I am deeply conflicted. One part of me cries out, "No more wars. No more deaths of our sons and daughters." The other part, that always shudders at the evil design behind the Holocaust, says, "We must help these people who have lost everything." I have no answer to either side, therein my bleak response to today's headlines and to the memories that will forever darken my vision.
War novels often have a line like, "Somewhere in the dark, a dog barks." I've been hearing a lot of that when I lie awake in the middle of the night. Death Valley is not just a place; it's a hell that humankind creates for the worst possible reason - hatred. There is no beauty in this valley.
Charlotte K. Jarmy , a Los Altos resident, supervises teachers at Stanford University and is a free-lance writer.