Orphanhood

I read the article in today's New York Times Magazine - Growing Up Buckley - and find that it haunts me as I continue to go about my day.

Such a poignant and loving piece. But I mean that in the real, nitty-gritty, we're-a-fucking-family kind of loving. Not hearts and flowers and pink ribbons. I admire Buckley's writing, and while he may pooh-pooh the role of a humorist, I find it a talent that is ever more rare and certainly a good one is hard to find these days. It seems rather out of fashion in writing circles these days.

But this isn't one of his funny pieces, although I continue to smile at some of his angles and perspectives.

Mostly, though, I am struck by the profound role of parents, life, death and presence. How the hell do people show up for death? How is it possible?

Visceral fear has gripped me for most of my life if I thought about dying and I'm very glad to say that seems to have passed. I no longer am afraid of dying. Goody for me. But really, so what? How absolutely banal can one get?

Both of my parents are still alive, getting frail and elderly, but very independent and alive. They still piss me off regularly. I worry sometimes that I'm so basically detached from them that I won't grieve when they pass. That I won't really, truly care.

Not the rip-your-heart-out-and-shift-the-ground care. What's up with that? Certainly my parents neither of them is any kind of a criminal monster. They may not have been up to the formidable task of loving me as I wish they had, but they are, after all, mere mortals. How could they really measure up to that anyway? Especially since they have now lived so long that I have been able to surpass every single thing they have ever "done for me" as I have parented my own children - with more presence, more love, more suffering, more care..... blah blah blah can you hear me?

How gross.

So these are my thoughts as I mull Buckley's article. I am glad he wrote it. I couldn't stand Bill Buckley's politics, that's for sure, but there was something about him that was mesmerizing. I'm grateful they weren't my parents. I'm glad to see that one doesn't have to have that oh-they-are-my-best-friends relationship with one's parents in order to show up at the end.

These moments of facing my own banality, and my own incredible self-absorption are frighteningly uncomfortable. I don't seek them out. I don't really enjoy them.

But there is something false that begins to rear its head when I imagine NOT writing it down.

This is me too. Along with the things I strive to be, I am this too. Untested. Unschooled. Inexperienced. Fully-parented. I am not an orphan.

Funny how that ties in from the last post to this one.