I was driving home from a weekend in Toronto the other morning - very early - under steel grey skies that pressed in like prison walls. The cold, wet rain made it feel like the whole earth was grieving something, and even the music I was playing from a CD (Magic Carpet Ride) that Hannah had put together for "Dad's Trips" couldn't snap me out of the melancholy I was feeling.
Sadness is an embracing emotion, and the melancholy that accompanies it shapes the moments with crystal clear images and memories. No matter what makes you sad, it has the propensity for bringing us closer to the people and places that we love than do some of the good memories we enjoy. Think about the last time you were truly sad, and consider the details in the circumstance, and you will know of what I speak.
As I drove through North Bay, I decided to try to cheer myself up with some light Christmas music by James Taylor - an album that I have loved over the years. And as it happens often, this one particular song came on that reminded me of Noah, and considering the mood I was in and the unrelenting greyness that surrounded me, I just burst into tears that matched the size and quantity of those wicked raindrops hitting my windshield. Unbidden and uncontrolled, they just fell for about ten minutes, and when it was over - both the song and the tears - I felt as though something had been lifted. As if I had purged myself (again) of lingering remnants of grief from losing Noah some 16 years ago.
Or was it grief?
I wondered about this moment, and the ones in the past when I have been reminded of that tragedy and loss, and of how often I lose myself in it. I wondered if, indeed, it is grief that I am experiencing after all of these years, or if it is a reminder - an intimate, loving, private reminder of a life that was not lived, but one that had such profound meaning. I tell the few with whom I share that I remember every part of that little guy - his face so beautiful, pretty lips and long eyelashes, his fingers like that of a piano player, so solid in his skin. Fine, fine hair covered his newly born body, and he looked like he was sleeping. And for the few precious moments that we had together, we were one.
Him, naked against my chest, no heartbeat, but a rhythm between us, nonetheless; my heart beating for him. Oh, we were one that Christmas morning.
Love is such a burden, isn't it? A complicated, perplexing, necessary burden. In Noah's death, how could I ever have known then what I know now...
...that he was a gift of purest love.
"Who comes this night, this wintry night
As to a lowly manger...
Who sends this song upon the air
to ease the soul that's aching
to still the cry of deep despair
and heal that heart that's breaking..."
James Taylor: Who Comes This Night
http://youtu.be/30-h4ulNDow
Monday, 28 November 2011
Sunday, 18 September 2011
On Heather, Religion and the Afterlife
So, my daughter, Heather, and I have these long discussions about life in general (my wife calls them arguments) and we always come to a place where we agree to disagree; in other words, I don't respect her opinions and she doesn't respect mine. Well, maybe a little bit of respect; frankly, I think I am right all of the time.
In our deliberations (which may be loud, but are very enjoyable), I seem to always move to that fundamental challenge posed to me by a friend and colleague from Mexico who stated to a roomful of Superintendent-wannabes that, as North Americans, we all need "to get in touch with our deaths."
It is in this simple challenge where I realize that I am constantly trying to find purpose and meaning in my life and not view Catholicism as a social construct (which, arguably, it could be deemed) but as a way - or a path - or a guide - that I must embrace; as, within its framework, it allows me the opportunity, if I continue to search, to transcend the religion and realize a truth that can only come from being in touch with my death. I won't get into this in a blog...so much. I think I'd rather talk it out with Mike, Chris, Mark, Danny and Brian. Philosophers, every one.
I watch as a good friend battles with a brain tumour, another with a diagnosis of lukemia, and yet another, a best friend, who just passed away from heart failure - at the to early age of 55. And I realize what a privilege it is to just be able to engage like this, with my daughter, without the realization of a date-with-death other than the distant notion that, someday, I won't be here.
So, what about our differences of opinion? What about me and Heather? Well, all is good. Healthy. Lively. Engaging. And I have the privilege of being with her on her journey of understanding herself and the world around her - a world that she embraces so differently than most others - one that withstands any and all judgment, because, like you, and me, and all of us...she'll come to terms with her own death, too.
In her own way. In her own time. And it may be entirely something that I won't understand. But that okay.
It is what we all share. We are all going somewhere. So best to just love and respect each other on our journeys.
Paul
Notwithstanding, she does compel me to return to my lifelong engagement and pursuit of understanding myself (and others, I suppose) in this world. Heather's irritation with formal religion as a framework within which to pursue these answers is palatable, and as much as it bugs her, it more often incites in me a desire to defend Catholicism. In this, I try to urge her back to the comfort of its framework and the goodness of those parts of the system that honours sacramental commitment, 10 simple commandments, and the ritual of a community of believers who, on their unique journeys and varying states of mind, prevail as committed to the simple truth that is God.
In our deliberations (which may be loud, but are very enjoyable), I seem to always move to that fundamental challenge posed to me by a friend and colleague from Mexico who stated to a roomful of Superintendent-wannabes that, as North Americans, we all need "to get in touch with our deaths."
It is in this simple challenge where I realize that I am constantly trying to find purpose and meaning in my life and not view Catholicism as a social construct (which, arguably, it could be deemed) but as a way - or a path - or a guide - that I must embrace; as, within its framework, it allows me the opportunity, if I continue to search, to transcend the religion and realize a truth that can only come from being in touch with my death. I won't get into this in a blog...so much. I think I'd rather talk it out with Mike, Chris, Mark, Danny and Brian. Philosophers, every one.
I watch as a good friend battles with a brain tumour, another with a diagnosis of lukemia, and yet another, a best friend, who just passed away from heart failure - at the to early age of 55. And I realize what a privilege it is to just be able to engage like this, with my daughter, without the realization of a date-with-death other than the distant notion that, someday, I won't be here.
So, what about our differences of opinion? What about me and Heather? Well, all is good. Healthy. Lively. Engaging. And I have the privilege of being with her on her journey of understanding herself and the world around her - a world that she embraces so differently than most others - one that withstands any and all judgment, because, like you, and me, and all of us...she'll come to terms with her own death, too.
In her own way. In her own time. And it may be entirely something that I won't understand. But that okay.
It is what we all share. We are all going somewhere. So best to just love and respect each other on our journeys.
"listen: there’s a hell
of a good universe next door; let’s go"
- e.e. cummings -
Paul
Saturday, 23 July 2011
On Burning Bridges
If you've read/seen Tom Stoppard's Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead you will no doubt remember the famous line that reads:
The burning of bridges is a thing we all do well. Disconnecting. Leaving things behind us, things undone and unfinished. And the further away from these burned bridges we get, the more faint our "memory of the smell of smoke" becomes to a point of "presumption that our eyes watered."
And, interestingly enough, it is disconnecting with one another that we all fear the most. It is the thing that often prevents us from sharing our deepest, darkest secrets of things which we'd rather have others remain unaware. With all due respect, my inlaws and many of their generation and ilk were very much like this. It was a practiced decorum of sorts - a way of always showing your best side - and rarely, or never, revealing that which lay behind the curtain. It was deemed to be, I suppose, a credible way of maintaining civility at a societal level, but what was kept hidden in so many cases was dark and dangerous and in no way could be justified under this "best face forward" attitude.
In my work with men who have suffered sexual abuse by other men or women, particularly when they were young, I have come to understand that their greatest difficulty in opening up to talk about these atrocities is in their fear of disconnection; that is, if they utter the ugly words, share the brutal story, or admit that they had been sexually abused - then they feel that others would want nothing to do with them. This is the epitome of the fear of disconnection.
Disconnection. Fear of being disconnected. Who among us hasn't experienced this feeling at some point in our lives. You'll remember it when you think about a time when you lacked the courage to speak the truth - when you argued and defended something in which you did not believe - or when someone needed your help, but you were too afraid of public scrutiny to lend a necessary hand. There are other examples, of course, but you get the idea.
I think about significant decisions that I have made in the past and have no regrets in any of them; in fact, if I had to do it all over again, I'd likely make the same decision. And yet, memories resurface occasionally of bridges I have burned, and it compels me to remember the smell and sting of the smoke that made my eyes water at that time. It is necessary to be honest, because if I don't, then I dismiss all that connects me to all of you.
It is in the line "...and nothing to show for our progress..." from the play that is the most profound.We are all responsible to one another, and in our relationships with others, we forget that we are connected to such an extent that our actions, words, and decisions have the propensity to cause disconnection. We must always remember that the essence of who we are as humans lies deeply within our connectedness, and by burning bridges, we disconnect from one another. In this, there is "nothing to show for our progress." We can not only presume that "our eyes watered." We must remember - feel the tears - smell the smoke - and then recognize in the memory how it is that we may have disconnected - and then reconnect.
Think of a fading memory of the smell of smoke in your life.
Blessings,
Paul
"We cross our bridges when we come to them and burn them behind us,
with nothing to show for our progress except a memory of the smell of smoke,
and a presumption that, once, our eyes watered."
The burning of bridges is a thing we all do well. Disconnecting. Leaving things behind us, things undone and unfinished. And the further away from these burned bridges we get, the more faint our "memory of the smell of smoke" becomes to a point of "presumption that our eyes watered."
And, interestingly enough, it is disconnecting with one another that we all fear the most. It is the thing that often prevents us from sharing our deepest, darkest secrets of things which we'd rather have others remain unaware. With all due respect, my inlaws and many of their generation and ilk were very much like this. It was a practiced decorum of sorts - a way of always showing your best side - and rarely, or never, revealing that which lay behind the curtain. It was deemed to be, I suppose, a credible way of maintaining civility at a societal level, but what was kept hidden in so many cases was dark and dangerous and in no way could be justified under this "best face forward" attitude.
In my work with men who have suffered sexual abuse by other men or women, particularly when they were young, I have come to understand that their greatest difficulty in opening up to talk about these atrocities is in their fear of disconnection; that is, if they utter the ugly words, share the brutal story, or admit that they had been sexually abused - then they feel that others would want nothing to do with them. This is the epitome of the fear of disconnection.
Disconnection. Fear of being disconnected. Who among us hasn't experienced this feeling at some point in our lives. You'll remember it when you think about a time when you lacked the courage to speak the truth - when you argued and defended something in which you did not believe - or when someone needed your help, but you were too afraid of public scrutiny to lend a necessary hand. There are other examples, of course, but you get the idea.
I think about significant decisions that I have made in the past and have no regrets in any of them; in fact, if I had to do it all over again, I'd likely make the same decision. And yet, memories resurface occasionally of bridges I have burned, and it compels me to remember the smell and sting of the smoke that made my eyes water at that time. It is necessary to be honest, because if I don't, then I dismiss all that connects me to all of you.
It is in the line "...and nothing to show for our progress..." from the play that is the most profound.We are all responsible to one another, and in our relationships with others, we forget that we are connected to such an extent that our actions, words, and decisions have the propensity to cause disconnection. We must always remember that the essence of who we are as humans lies deeply within our connectedness, and by burning bridges, we disconnect from one another. In this, there is "nothing to show for our progress." We can not only presume that "our eyes watered." We must remember - feel the tears - smell the smoke - and then recognize in the memory how it is that we may have disconnected - and then reconnect.
Think of a fading memory of the smell of smoke in your life.
Blessings,
Paul
Monday, 18 July 2011
On Hope and Eternal Things...
So, I watched my wife pull away with her mother and the dogs heading to the cottage for a few days, and it got me thinking about "absence."
In and of itself, absence is, by dictionary definition, "the state of being away" or "the time or duration of a person being away": in any of these circumstances, the direct implication is that of "not being", and really, this can only be applied if there is someone other than the person who is "absent" thinking about the person who is not present; so then, one cannot be absent if another does not think about the one who is presumably absent, n'est ce pas? And what about the person who is absent? Does he/she think of him/herself as absent? Probably not in the same way as the person/people who they left behind.
God. Semantics and logic.
Just made me think of that worn out cliche: Absence makes the heart grow fonder.
In the case of someone's death, I think it ought to read: Absence makes the heart feel hopeless, because, in the grief process, isn't that what it truly feels like? I know when we lost Noah, it was the hopelessness of the circumstance that weighed the heaviest on us - the knowledge that we had lost a son - a living, breathing human being in the first moments of his life - who we knew could never return to us. And in no way, could we see the hope in it.
I feel and sense this same hopelessness in the people with whom I work in the counseling field and with close friends and families who have lost loved ones. The hopelessness abides in those darkest of moments, and continues to prevail well beyond the time when most others have wished you would just get over it and move on. Grief and healing have no set timeline and healing, I have discovered ironically, is conditional on our understanding of hope.
And so, came the time when we met Hannah. She was, perhaps, the most confounding (and welcome) little thing to ever have happened to us. Not that Haley and Heather weren't as precious in their arrival, but Hannah's birth yielded the most perplexing questions and forced us to consider an unerring truth; that if we hadn't lost Noah, we never would have met Hannah. It boggles the mind and wrenches the heart.
But what it does demonstrate is clear: hope prevails. It is hope upon which all human beings hinge their present and future; hope for ourselves, for our family, friends and others. And despite the most dire of circumstances, we must all look to find hope in all things. So easy to suggest, but, like the act of forgiveness, this is so very difficult to do. But I am convinced that it is hope that we must all seek, no matter what our situation. Each of us needs to find a path to hope when we feel such utter despair.
And when I wheel back to the earlier notion of absence, I can only think of Noah this way: that he may be "away", but that he has left us something so very precious in his leaving - a daughter and a sister - and a clear, unmitigated understanding that we will all be together again - soon.
Noah is absent, but not gone. So, too, are your loved ones "away", but hope will lead you back to them.
Below: a gift that I have only shared with a few - until today.
Paul
In and of itself, absence is, by dictionary definition, "the state of being away" or "the time or duration of a person being away": in any of these circumstances, the direct implication is that of "not being", and really, this can only be applied if there is someone other than the person who is "absent" thinking about the person who is not present; so then, one cannot be absent if another does not think about the one who is presumably absent, n'est ce pas? And what about the person who is absent? Does he/she think of him/herself as absent? Probably not in the same way as the person/people who they left behind.
God. Semantics and logic.
Just made me think of that worn out cliche: Absence makes the heart grow fonder.
In the case of someone's death, I think it ought to read: Absence makes the heart feel hopeless, because, in the grief process, isn't that what it truly feels like? I know when we lost Noah, it was the hopelessness of the circumstance that weighed the heaviest on us - the knowledge that we had lost a son - a living, breathing human being in the first moments of his life - who we knew could never return to us. And in no way, could we see the hope in it.
I feel and sense this same hopelessness in the people with whom I work in the counseling field and with close friends and families who have lost loved ones. The hopelessness abides in those darkest of moments, and continues to prevail well beyond the time when most others have wished you would just get over it and move on. Grief and healing have no set timeline and healing, I have discovered ironically, is conditional on our understanding of hope.
And so, came the time when we met Hannah. She was, perhaps, the most confounding (and welcome) little thing to ever have happened to us. Not that Haley and Heather weren't as precious in their arrival, but Hannah's birth yielded the most perplexing questions and forced us to consider an unerring truth; that if we hadn't lost Noah, we never would have met Hannah. It boggles the mind and wrenches the heart.
But what it does demonstrate is clear: hope prevails. It is hope upon which all human beings hinge their present and future; hope for ourselves, for our family, friends and others. And despite the most dire of circumstances, we must all look to find hope in all things. So easy to suggest, but, like the act of forgiveness, this is so very difficult to do. But I am convinced that it is hope that we must all seek, no matter what our situation. Each of us needs to find a path to hope when we feel such utter despair.
And when I wheel back to the earlier notion of absence, I can only think of Noah this way: that he may be "away", but that he has left us something so very precious in his leaving - a daughter and a sister - and a clear, unmitigated understanding that we will all be together again - soon.
Noah is absent, but not gone. So, too, are your loved ones "away", but hope will lead you back to them.
Below: a gift that I have only shared with a few - until today.
Paul
***********
Noah
When I think of him in my arms,
solid in his skin
and quiet,
like in sleep,
undisturbed by
life,
I think that he lives some place
where Time sits on gossamer threads,
diaphanous and unrestraining,
and he visits me, unnoticed,
and smiles at my grief, curious.
And he sits on my shoulders
at suppertime and looks at his
sisters, and hugs them with his eyes,
loving their pretty faces, seeing himself;
And when they cry in their sleep,
he marvels at the glistening tears,
they shed for him, like diamonds,
and he kisses them, inquisitively.
And he presses himself to his mother's breast
feeling her agony, knowing the empty womb
from which he was born.
And I know these he never questions;
and he attends to her,
and caresses her heart,
and speaks to her soul,
and whispers secrets that need only be shared
between a mother...
and her lost son.
Paul Toffanello
1994
Tuesday, 12 July 2011
On Death & Dying
No ghosts this time. Not real ones, anyway. I've been thinking about Paul Byck and another old acquaintance who both passed away a year ago this month.
I think there is a curse that abides in grief that many of us don't recognize. It is the curse of attempting to intellectualize the experience - to try to understand that which we have absolutely no capacity to understand. How could it possibly be that Paul does not exist in this world anymore? Where is Noah? What happened to Henry? What could Billy possibly be doing at this moment?
It speaks to the issue of trust, then; that is, a need to go as deeply as possible into ourselves and see that we do, in fact, understand at a very fundamental level - at an instinctual level - in the heart, perhaps. It is all right in front of us. We are all members of life, and regardless of death - in fact, in spite of it - we are part of something that connects us all - that is so much bigger than we can appreciate - and it inevitably leads us to trusting that there is more to all of this thing we call life than just being in the moment.
What we must do is remember when we lose loved ones. See them in our daily lives: in our values, our commitments, our children, our surroundings, in all the people whom we have loved and who are not with us in the moment. Most importantly, we need to recognize them as fellow members of life who have just moved on to a different place - one which we have no hope of understanding, but one in which they live, breathe, flourish... and wait to join us when our time comes.
And...our time will come. It is the one thing that reminds us of how we are connected and how it is that we are a part of it all. Before. During. After.
Think about someone you've lost today, and remember that they are, indeed, still alive.
Remember.
Paul
I think there is a curse that abides in grief that many of us don't recognize. It is the curse of attempting to intellectualize the experience - to try to understand that which we have absolutely no capacity to understand. How could it possibly be that Paul does not exist in this world anymore? Where is Noah? What happened to Henry? What could Billy possibly be doing at this moment?
It speaks to the issue of trust, then; that is, a need to go as deeply as possible into ourselves and see that we do, in fact, understand at a very fundamental level - at an instinctual level - in the heart, perhaps. It is all right in front of us. We are all members of life, and regardless of death - in fact, in spite of it - we are part of something that connects us all - that is so much bigger than we can appreciate - and it inevitably leads us to trusting that there is more to all of this thing we call life than just being in the moment.
What we must do is remember when we lose loved ones. See them in our daily lives: in our values, our commitments, our children, our surroundings, in all the people whom we have loved and who are not with us in the moment. Most importantly, we need to recognize them as fellow members of life who have just moved on to a different place - one which we have no hope of understanding, but one in which they live, breathe, flourish... and wait to join us when our time comes.
And...our time will come. It is the one thing that reminds us of how we are connected and how it is that we are a part of it all. Before. During. After.
Think about someone you've lost today, and remember that they are, indeed, still alive.
Remember.
Paul
Saturday, 2 July 2011
On Ghosts & Graveyards
I've never really understood my fascination with scary things...and with scaring people. Ergo, the title of my blog. In any event, ghosts, graveyards and those things that go bump in the night intrigue me, thrill me, scare me, and inspire me. King, Koontz and I could be brothers.
Having recently completed the final edit of my novel, Poopchuck's Ghost, I am now onto the second in the series entitled, Popchuck's Revenge. Same characters, different circumstances and a continued plot that reveals more about the ghost in the first story. When done, I will finish the third in the series whose working title is: The Business of Trolls (Or Popchuck's End), which has been roughed out but needs refining.
I have had the advantage of working with Frank B. Edwards - www.bungalobooks.com - for the past several years. His experience and guidance has been so wonderful and so much appreciated, and I have learned a great deal in my time with him. If you have kids, pick up his books. Most of them are published under his earlier company, www.pokeweedpress.com. They are excellent. And if you're a teacher, follow him as he has a lot to offer in terms of support in the classroom. And if you're a Principal or Superintendent, invite him in to your schools, as he has a wonderful program that works with children of all ages.
I'm never happier than when writing, and I am most happy in the writing when I am tripping over the keys fashioning a deliciously wicked scene with witches and warlocks, or ghosts and monsters. In fact, Poopchuck's Ghost is a compilation of the ghost stories from Camp Bickell in the Timmins area. As the summer camp director there in the 80's, these stories fascinated me, and I loved watching the kids running around at night screaming out his name and trying to frighten one another. That's when I thought I would try my hand at putting it all together, and indeed, after three months - of handwriting using foolscap - I carved out the first version of the novel. When I went back the next summer to direct the camp again, the kids sat around the bonfire while I read several chapters each evening - and there was dead silence. The story got rave reviews, and I was inspired to keep up the writing, which I have done. I am hoping that the launch of the first in the series will bring a joy of reading to kids...and that it scares the hell out of them!!
As for my blog, On Ghosts & Graveyards will be my meanderings on everything from writing to relationships, novels to poetry, movies to real life, and I invite you in, my friend, to comment if you will.
My real hope will be that I find myself, and we find each other, in here, somewhere.
Boo!
Having recently completed the final edit of my novel, Poopchuck's Ghost, I am now onto the second in the series entitled, Popchuck's Revenge. Same characters, different circumstances and a continued plot that reveals more about the ghost in the first story. When done, I will finish the third in the series whose working title is: The Business of Trolls (Or Popchuck's End), which has been roughed out but needs refining.
I have had the advantage of working with Frank B. Edwards - www.bungalobooks.com - for the past several years. His experience and guidance has been so wonderful and so much appreciated, and I have learned a great deal in my time with him. If you have kids, pick up his books. Most of them are published under his earlier company, www.pokeweedpress.com. They are excellent. And if you're a teacher, follow him as he has a lot to offer in terms of support in the classroom. And if you're a Principal or Superintendent, invite him in to your schools, as he has a wonderful program that works with children of all ages.
I'm never happier than when writing, and I am most happy in the writing when I am tripping over the keys fashioning a deliciously wicked scene with witches and warlocks, or ghosts and monsters. In fact, Poopchuck's Ghost is a compilation of the ghost stories from Camp Bickell in the Timmins area. As the summer camp director there in the 80's, these stories fascinated me, and I loved watching the kids running around at night screaming out his name and trying to frighten one another. That's when I thought I would try my hand at putting it all together, and indeed, after three months - of handwriting using foolscap - I carved out the first version of the novel. When I went back the next summer to direct the camp again, the kids sat around the bonfire while I read several chapters each evening - and there was dead silence. The story got rave reviews, and I was inspired to keep up the writing, which I have done. I am hoping that the launch of the first in the series will bring a joy of reading to kids...and that it scares the hell out of them!!
As for my blog, On Ghosts & Graveyards will be my meanderings on everything from writing to relationships, novels to poetry, movies to real life, and I invite you in, my friend, to comment if you will.
My real hope will be that I find myself, and we find each other, in here, somewhere.
Boo!
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