Since Dad died on Christmas Eve, this will -- technically -- be our third Christmas without him in two years. Numbers are odd, aren't they?
I've been thinking about language lately. Really, I should have said that Dad passed away, but that suggests peace to me. Death itself, I assume, was peaceful for him. For us, as you know, a relief.
We imbue words with so much power. Connotations trump denotations. When I write, I choose carefully and opts for those with the most emotion. When I teach, I aim for the same. To hell with neutrality.
I think I'm still angry.
I have that right. I claim that right, and I won't surrender it for the sake of being nice. Don't tell me that time makes it easier. It just makes it harder to remember events. Not emotions, however. Never emotions.
Since posting the article on CMU's Dr. Randy Pausch in September, I've been thinking more about the art of living. That's what it is, really. An art.
And so I flew to Louisville, talked boldly to strangers with the same interests, and dressed up because I wanted to. When I came home, I got rid of what I call my "thin" clothes -- classic, professional clothing that I wore pre-baby and kept because I plan to lose those last few pounds. (Let's face it, after four years, those pounds aren't going away. I'm going to finally dub them curves and go buy new slacks.)
If living is an art, then one needs to decorate. I tried new dishes in Louisville, and now find the processed meals at the local chain restaurants lacking more then ever. Love, Toni Morrison's latest in hardback, is on my bookshelf, just waiting for me to dive in; it's far from the usual romances I pick up.
Gavie and I are planning how we'll decorate the backyard with wildflowers and other fauna next summer. We're working on preserving seeds from his garden for the spring planting season. As we clean up the yard and prepare for the fall, we look for slugs and worms and are always very successful.
And I have my other blog, Ferocious Tigers, which is where I work on my roar.