White Hot Grief Parade
Page 21
I think about those moments when I connect with my father in the present, as an adult. I think about his charisma, his star power, his blinding intellect, and vision. I think about all of the things he loved about me, and vice versa, all the things he wanted for me, fought for, in many ways gave his life for.
I think about him.
Grief is a place we all shall visit, a familiar yet foreign land. You sit at the benches in the town square and without warning, the skyline transforms before you, the seat below you shifts, the beverage you are drinking morphs into another. One can never feel at ease there, only become more acclimatized to the nature of the ever-changing place, learn the rules, the language, the customs—to embrace the cold and strange, but be at peace with it. Because you must: in the Land of Grief, it is not only the cushions that alter, you alter too. And often, you don’t always notice when you do.
But sometimes there is nothing you can do about pure, unadulterated, weighted, roaring sorrow.
Frankly, I would not blame a soul if they exercised their right to curl up and die—to capitulate to the agony of loss, collapse upon their dreams and live the remainder of their days flying at half-mast. I would never blame those that do. All I know is something within me refused to. Something within me would not allow it. I chose to live.
To really live.
That is my father’s perpetual gift to me. When we face our greatest fear so early in life, we must take heart: there is nothing left to be afraid of.
Were there days when all I desired was to merely wake up and breathe, to just allow my heart to beat, not truly caring whether it continued?
Yes.
But I chose to live.
And I did not choose it because there didn’t seem to be another choice, not because it is what my dad would have wanted. I lived because I wanted to.
Ultimately, I found a place deeper than pain; an invisible but palpable place with ground as sturdy and immovable and as glittering as diamonds—to lift up, to surface, to eat at the banquet of the living even when that meant doing so bite by painstaking bite.
I look back at the child I was, the gifted, old soul, yes; but mostly the inexperienced child facing so much, so many grown up troubles on top of the already heavy decisions and changes associated with that time in everyone’s life. She was cut off at the knees, for no matter how much we think we know when we are seventeen or eighteen, we are not done being raised.
Are we ever?
I look back at her as if she was someone else and I want to hug her and tell her it will be all right. I want to tell her that she is stronger than she knows, that even though she has no reason to believe that she will ever be happy again, that she will. I want to tell her that when she survives this—and she will— she never has to be afraid again.
I would not judge her now as I judged myself then. I would not tell her—because she would scarcely have believed me—that she would soar to the top of every one of her dreams.
I learned in Scotland that sometimes we must “act as if.”
I learned in London that life does get better. That it ebbs and flows.
I learned from the people who loved me before and the people I met along the way that love is infinite.
I learned Fear. I learned Shame. And Regret. Endurance, ugliness, and a deeply personal kind of Faith.
I learned that love keeps going.
I learned that holding on to resentment only hurts you. I learned that forgiveness sets you free.
I learned Patience, Serenity, Courage, and Gratitude.
I learned all of this, for it is only in the depths of Grief that we truly learn to value Life.
I have had the greatest adventures anyone could ever hope for. I pinch myself almost every day asking myself, “Is this real life?” Does one person truly get to experience every kind of dream? The people I have met, the places I’ve been, the quantity and quality of every experience, every opportunity, every travel, conversation, job, every glorious triumph, every accomplishment and celebration and happiness . . .
Reader: I would trade it all for Only. One. Thing. But that is not how it works.
And that is what still smarts. And probably always will.
We cannot make such trades, and so, we must accept with all our hearts what is, what we cannot change, and do as much as we can with the circumstances we’ve been handed. Do not wish or pray away the pain—ask for the strength to endure it so that it may be used for further understanding, to view each trial as an opportunity. Before we can rebuild our life, we must come to know the peace that accompanies acceptance, for out of peace arises the willingness and the wisdom to greet each day with the freedom of an open, loving, trusting, and resilient heart.
Whoever you are, no matter how despairing or isolated, know this: being fully alive and fully present in all of your experiences—joyful and harrowing—is a human right worth fighting for. We are limited in life only by what we believe we are capable of. I am not remarkable. No. I am a human being just like you—capable of everything from the most deplorable of errors to the vastest glories. As are we all. But I endeavor to show up: to work, to love, to grow, to life. No matter what any of it chooses to serve.
When we stare deep into the black infinity, when we truly take part in the democracy of loss and mortality, we recognize that all of us—no matter how wealthy, beautiful, talented, kind, willful, adventurous— die. We all die. You will, someday, die. And in the end, we all must face the same questions:
Was I brave?
Did I use my gifts?
What did I believe in?
What did I stand for?
What did I stand against?
Did I do what truly mattered?
Did I love enough?
It has been said that wisdom is a guide upon which to chart the journey of the spirit.
Wisdom is precious.
And wisdom is earned.
It is not about what happens to us; it is how we choose to respond to life, that matters.
Thank you, Papa.
Thank you, Grief.
Half a lifetime on, I feel stronger and more grateful than ever.
Onwards, with courage and integrity.
Acknowledgments
“I’m sailing!”
—What About Bob?
Several close friends lent constant warm hands—not merely creatively but held my hand when the reviewing of such challenging memoires became, at times, unbearable. Bobby Steggert, Tasha Sheridan, Amy Maiden, Elizabeth Stanley, Alexandra Socha, Amy Jo Jackson, Frances Thorburn, Kit Baker, and of course, to Lillian Townsend Copeland. They helped me bear it. These are all the truest of friends who constantly hold me accountable, buoy me, and above all, gave me the courage.
To Sierra Boggess, Tyne Daly, Rabbi Larry Hoffman, and of course, Judy Kaye—for their invaluable gifts of friendship and inspiration. To Samantha Massell and Rachel Sussman for eleventh hour inspiration and support. In addition, thanks is owed to the great Bill Murray, Greek Islands Coney Restaurant, and to Interlochen Center for the Arts.
I am indebted to my first readers of this work: Julia Murney (and her beautiful card sent in the actual mail after completing my first draft), Morgan James (who was so determined a friend to finish reading, she printed out the draft page by page at the front desk of her hotel in Mexico), Stuart Piper (who read this in its infancy from one side of the Atlantic to the other), and Allie Beauregard—my collegiate voice of reason.
My students from Pace University Classes 2016–2018—who held up a mirror of their talent and their youth, reminding me of what it means to be eighteen years old, and taught me simply by being themselves. Who showed me that I would never dare to hurt and punish them as I had to hurt and punished myself. You will always be my “Purple Warriors.” Particular thanks is owed to Katie Hollenshead—for being the young person I needed to help encourage me to share my truth without shame, and eventually gave me the gift of setting me free.
To my inextinguishable, beautiful
mother Catherine. You are grace, joy, depth and resilience. You make Dolly Levi look like a stick in the mud. Thank you for all you’ve given me and thank you for allowing me to have my own experience with both death and life. You’re not only my mother you’re my friend. To Rabbi Daniel Syme (the only “character” in both of my as-of-yet published novels). To Roberta Sorvino—without your guidance both I, and this volume, would be a shadow of what it was.
Unending and never-forgotten gratitude to and for Justin Flagg and Dane Laffrey—my saviors, my heroes. To friends Haley DeKorne and Jessica Modrall. To my teacher Judy Chu (who taught me to meaningfully read and write). And to my Interlochen acting teachers and mentors David Montee and Robin Ellis, who nurtured within me every important theatrical truth, and gave me a space to grow into the artist I am today.
To my agent Joelle Delbourgo, my manager Jeff Berger, magical editor Iris Blasi, and to Pegasus Books for all taking endless chances on me.
Crucially, to my wonderful brother Jordan Silber and his beautiful young family—my sister-in-law Maggie, and nieces Hannah, Madison, and Charlotte. Despite having a half-brother seventeen years older than myself, I had the childhood experience of an only child. This chronicle reflects that sentence. We did not grow up together, but in our adulthood I have come to know and love you (along with your beautiful young family) very much. Not only to love you—to like you! How many families can say that? I recognize that we had very different experiences with our father and our family. I respect your experience utterly, and love you unconditionally—more than words could ever say.
The penultimate debt of gratitude goes to Louise Lamont. Louise, without you, I would not be a writer, and White Hot Grief Parade (in particular) would not exist. You found, cultivated, nurtured and in many ways partially built the writer I am, and no language could ever express my infinite love and gratitude.
Above all, to my father, my dad, my Papa: Michael David Silber. I loved you, I still love you. Thank you. See you soon.
AHOY.
ALSO BY ALEXANDRA SILBER
After Anatevka
WHITE HOT GRIEF PARADE
Pegasus Books Ltd.
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Copyright © 2018 Alexandra Sliber
First Pegasus Books cloth edition July 2018
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