I can’t skip Double Dutch. I never could. There’s a rhythm to it. You have to know how to jump in, and avoid getting slapped in the face with the thin, plastic rope and get laughed at by the kids on the playground.
I’ve watched others keep time with their bodies–slightly keeping time with the ropes and then just jump in at the right time. I can’t do that, so I never learned how.
I’ve been avoiding places and experiences where Beck was–or where we were with her.
I didn’t vote last week. Voting was something we did as a family. Since Christina was a baby, I made it a point to bring my kids to vote, but last week, I couldn’t physically make my body go. I couldn’t text my kids and organize them so we could all go together.
There’s a rhythm to this. This movement of jumping into a space where she once was. I don’t know how to walk through the door of our voting place. I can’t go and not see us together.
I feel the hesitation, the uncertainty and the fear of pain.
There are so many places where we’ve been. Now, there are so many moments of trepidation.
I recently read a letter from the poet Rainer Maria Rilke (1875 -1926) in the Paris Review (9/6/2018) where he offers consolation and advice to a friend who lost her brother.
Grand Hôtel, August 1st, 1913
My Dear Sidie,
Your letter really touches my heart. On the one hand, I want to encourage you in your pain so that you will completely experience it in all its fullness, because as the experience of a new intensity it is a great life experience and leads everything back again to life, like everything that reaches a certain degree of greatest strength. But on the other hand, I am very concerned when I imagine how strangled and cut off you currently live, afraid of touching anything that is filled with memories (and what is not filled with memories?). You will freeze in place if you remain this way. You must not, dear. You have to move. You have to return to his things. You have to touch with your hands his things, which through their manifold relations and attraction are after all also yours. You must, Sidie, (this is the task that this incomprehensible fate imposes upon you), you must continue his life inside of yours insofar as it has been unfinished; his life has now passed onto yours. You, who quite truly knew him, can quite truly continue in his spirit and on his path. Make it the task of your mourning to explore what he had expected of you, had hoped for you, had wished to happen to you. If I could just convince you, my dear friend, that his influence has not vanished from your existence (how much more reliably I feel my father to be effective and helpful in me since he no longer dwells among us). Just think how much in our daily lives misleads and troubles us, and renders another person’s love imprecise for us. But now he is definitely here, now he is completely free to be here and we are completely free to feel him … Haven’t you felt your father’s influence and compassion a thousand times from the universe where all, truly all, Sidie, is beyond loss? Don’t believe that something that belongs to our pure realities could drop away and simply cease. Whatever had such steady influence on us had already been a reality independent of all the circumstances familiar to us here. This is precisely why we experienced it as something so different and independent of an actual need: because from the very beginning, it had no longer been aimed at and determined by our existence here. All of our true relationships, all of our enduring experiences touch upon and pass through everything, Sidie, through life and death. We must live in both, be intimately at home in both. I know individuals who already face the one and the other without fear and with the same love—for is life really more demystified and safely entrusted to us than that other condition? Are not both conditions in a place namelessly beyond us, out of reach? We are true and pure only in our willingness to the whole, the undecided, the great, to the greatest. Alas, if I could tell you just how I know it, then deep within your mourning, a tiny kernel of dark joy would take shape. Make it your ambition to take heart. Start doing so this very evening by playing Beethoven; he also was committed to the whole.
Yours, Rainer