All About You

So I had this cute little intro all ready about how I began this post on our flight to Orange County, California, for vacation, but I ditched that because as I was working on more of this post on the flight home, the draft suddenly deleted itself. Before you get skeptical, you have to understand: I was SO careful about saving the draft over and over again. I don’t know what happened, and I tried to retrieve it, but nothing worked. Luckily for you, I put a lot of thought and effort into these affirmations so it didn’t take too long to retype them all… I guess. But here ya go anyway. Thanks for listening to my rant!

*Period 5, I wrote affirmations for you too! But they’re a bit shorter because I don’t know a ton of you that well. Sorry 🙂

Analyzing Antigone

The play Antigone opens with a dramatic argument between Antigone and Ismene, two sisters debating the burial of their brother. Although their uncle Creon has issued a law forbidding the burial, and even mourning, of the shamed brother, Antigone yearns to respect and bury her brother no matter the risk. Ismene, on the other hand, as a more wary respect of authority and wants to obey the rule. Personally, I believe Ismene’s conclusion is the right one. Given the circumstances, I would fiercely want to defend my brother as Antigone does, no question about it. But I identify more with Ismene’s prioritization. In this situation one can either hold more respect for the deceased brother, or for the authorities. As the burial comes with the risk of extreme consequences (stoning-to-death extreme, I might add) I believe it makes more sense to value one’s own life over that of the dead brother.
As you can probably tell, I identify more with Ismene. I am such a goody-goody rule follower and it actually helps me to have rules in place. I’m not a creative type, so that kind of structure helps me with completing things well and efficiently. There are exceptions, of course – I have no idea how circumstances like these would impact my emotional response. Personally I’m glad I don’t have to know how I would act regarding the burial of my brother!

Sorry for the Sob Story

Until I knew her, I didn’t know that my life was so empty – that it could be filled with so much joy, so much light.

The first time I saw her, everything about her was just… perfect. Round, bright, coffee-colored eyes surrounded by full, flowing lashes. A small, soft frame enhanced by the pale pink that brought out her rosy cheeks. She observed the world around her pensively, curiously. I knew that my life was forever changed. From that moment, all my hopes, my dreams, my aspirations were replaced by the want – no, the need – to seek her. To love her. To protect her. I was ready to give everything I had. I would willingly give my life for her.

She had her mother’s eyes.  My wife’s eyes. But that was years ago.

I see my daughter in the pictures that hang on the living room wall, on the screensaver of my phone. I see her in the trees and flowers that grow on the side of the road, and in the white clouds that float idly by on lazy June mornings. I see her in the neighborhood kids slurping on their dripping ice-cream-sandwiches. But most of all, I see her in that corner room on the second floor that we painted pink before she came home wrapped in a blanket of the same color. I see her in the piano that we moved up there on her sixth birthday and that has remained for so long as some kind of silent shrine because no one dares touch it. I see her in the polka-dot bedspread that her grandmother made for her when we found out the news, carefully tucked into the bed frame. I see her in the oxygen tanks that still surround her bed, in the pill bottles flooding the bathroom sink. I see her in the grief-stricken eyes of my family, of my wife.

While she was still alive, when we realized the doctors could do nothing but keep her out of pain, I never let her see me cry. I never let my wife see my cry. I was strong for them. But now, on the anniversary of her death, I sit with her favorite teddy bear on that polka dot blanket and let the tears fall.After a while, I sit at the piano bench and play the dusty keys. I play her favorite song, one of beauty, light, joy. But on this day, it seems mournful. My wife comes into the room with tears streaming down her face.

We hug, dry our tears, and go to pick up the younger kids from school. We move on, because that’s what she would want us to do.