Thoughts on a bad cliché

I was doing some pottery in my dusty, cold, dark basement today. My fingers are chilled to the bone, and the poor lighting made me mistake my long-cut bangs as movements in the shadows just outside my field of vision on more than one occasion.

While working on my long neglected petal-themed pots, a small thought popped into my head while thinking of how practice can sometimes help improve your skills.

When bad things happen, some chalk it up to circumstances beyond your control, and put responsibility in the hands of bodies that are higher up on the spiritual prayer chain. But when good things happen, it’s because you worked for it, and not necessarily due to the willful hands of a universal idea of life being fair and balanced.

Maybe this is all just hot air floating serenely out my bum. But it’s a small thought that popped into mind while thinking about my beloved Henry and working on some pots. I write about it now because I’ve been told some fickle but well-intended comments about fate regarding how to heal from my Henry ordeal (the idea of that in itself is fickle!).

The idea leans on things that are “meant to be” – something you should never, EVER say to someone who has lost their child. Or that it was God’s, or some other higher being’s will, or that God or whoever needed their angel back. Talk about hot air being blown out a bum.

I’m starting to believe more and more in the idea of chaos. The universe is overwhelmingly enormous. We’re just tiny little monkeys bumbling on a small blue marble around one relatively small sun in a galaxy which we understand pinpricks about. It’s so bizarre that we’re even here, and miraculous that anyone’s life should be free from strife. So why should my life hold enough importance that the universe, or God, or whoever, will conspire to make sure my life is fair and balanced, and that I follow a clear, fated path that I’m meant to follow?

But I’m probably wrong. I’m just a silly little monkey on a blue marble with a limited world-view and understanding of how life works, trying to occupy my time between now and when my body stops working, and thinking of my little boy whose body stopped working before he could use it much or think about stuff like this, too.

Life in the raw

I’ve been reading Year of Wonders, a fictional book about an English village that isolated themselves in the 1600s during a severe plague outbreak. The story shows most of the village succumbing to the plague, dropping off one by one, or in droves. The priest in the story convinced the townspeople to stay where they were to avoid spreading plague seeds to the surrounding villages. And it worked.

Now if only I had a similar buffer in my life to prevent death after death of ripping in to my heart. It’s hard to see the good right now.

I have another bunny with dental problems – I always assumed he’d be the first of my pets to go, which is why losing Sweetie is so harsh – she was the healthy, resilient one. But she had cancer, and there was no way of knowing that until the vet first examined her, which is what led to bringing her in for a hysterectomy. It was supposed to make her better and let her live a lot longer. I’m so mad, sad, and heartbroken over losing Sweetie. It is a harsh loss, and all in the wake of losing Henry. I would have been a few weeks shy from 30 weeks pregnant with him at this point.

So Wilbur, my toothless dwarf, will meet the same end as Sweetie, and we’ll have a teary, heartbroken goodbye with him. Same with our cat, same with my step-son’s gerbil. Same with many of the people I know and love.

I’m feeling very raw. I feel like I wiped out on my bike and have been recovering from knees scraped to the bone after losing Henry, but scabs were starting to slowly form. Losing Sweetie is like falling hard on my already sore knees and splitting a coupe of healed scabs open so the blood can come through anew.

The only way to buffer myself against further loss is to cut off all ties with my friends and family, and live alone in a cave and provide for myself by scraping meals of algae from its damp walls. Or be hit by a bus. I think this stage of grief is all of them, especially shock and depression.

And these losses – Henry, Sweetie – all came about because of decisions I made for them. Even though a more painful death was inevitably in their future.

Something good is bound to happen in my life, isn’t it? But why should it? The universe is vast and incomprehensible. Why does my tiny life, barely significant, need to be joyful? I don’t feel like it matters right now.