Category: Memories of Mary

Artifact: a usually simple object (such as a tool or ornament) showing human workmanship or modification as distinguished from a natural object. *especially*: an object remaining from a particular period.
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We shouldn’t take too much credit for Mary’s Magnolia. I recognize God first in its visual beauty and calming aroma.
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This tree has become more than a miracle of God because of humans. Someone brought it to this alien climate and decided to decorate their home decades ago. Half a decade ago, Mary spotted it and something moved in her soul. The tree chose us as much as we chose it.
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Our sons went to work climbing and testing their bravery, going higher with each effort. Jungle gym, tree house, crow’s nest, lookout tower, public announcement platform, or sniper’s perch, their imagination has brought it to life through play.
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Whenever it bloomed, Mary would bring one in the house to enjoy the fragrance. Elaborate and precarious rigs allowed blooms to travel with us on camping trips. It became a source of solace inside our home and when we were away.
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The tree still provides all of these comforts of home. The boys still test themselves and each other among the branches and the blooms still bless our living spaces, wherever they may be.
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It’s more. It’s a memorial to Mary. The May and June blooms always appear first outside our bathroom window, my first view of the day. They remind me that something can be beautiful outside its natural habitat, somewhere it doesn’t belong. A Christian, unschooler, widower, not living in fear of the invisible dangers I watched kill my wife? Yeah, I’m not where I belong. That’s fine, I’ll keep on blooming and growing.
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God bless and thank you for reading,

Jason

“Dancing is for those who are free.”
-Scarlett Johansson as Rosie in “Jojo Rabbit”

“You dance differently when you know you won’t live forever.”
-Maeve in Wonder Woman: Warbringer, by Leigh Bardugo

As a complement to the many derivations of my surname (Zerbs, Zerbster, Zerbmeister, a full-throated ZERBEY!, ad infinitum…), Spaz was a common nickname in school, with varying degrees of playfulness and derision.

I’m always moving, dancing in my mind or in the world. Dancing in soccer, mosh pits, conversation, sex, quidditch, wrestling my sons, listening, problem solving, kite flying, hiking, running, thinking, talking, cold showers, and the occasional dance floor.

The sunset above lead into the night of last dance I would share with my wife before she died. We danced like we were free. We danced like we knew we wouldn’t live forever. We always danced like that.

The first time I saw Mary she was dancing with her sisters in a bar in Rehoboth Beach, Delaware. I thought, “Wow, there are some seriously cute hippy lesbians in this town. I wonder how that’s going to work out for me.”

Our first dance was at a Toots and the Maytals concert in neighboring Dewey Beach. I sweat myself right through on that summer evening as we were falling in love.

So often we were in a crowd at a concert or a party. Making friends in the movement, or moving on our own in a room of stodgy WXPN listeners. That was a Carolina Chocolate Drops concert at The Grand in Wilmington. Everyone sat very politely and, well, I don’t know what the hell they were doing. Appreciating the music? It’s dance music from the mountains, a gift from the Appalachian gods to the city folk who couldn’t make their own music (i.e., me and Mary). We moved off to the periphery to not block views and danced so fervently that we ended up on the television broadcast.

I don’t know the importance of dancing with one another. I am contemplating all the memories. My younger son on my shoulders as we pounded the mud and slid on the continous precipice of falling in front of Reverend Peyton’s Big Damn Band, tears flowing with sweat as they played, “Lay Your Burden Down.” Bowie’s “Rock ‘N’ Roll With Me,” as Mary and I shared our first dance as a married couple. My older son easily recalls weddings and music festivals where we danced from the first song to the last. A car alarm can inspire a pogo. A boxing match guarantees an Ali (with a strong chance of a Curly) shuffle. Sinatra came on while I made dinner with my girlfriend and a slow dance break was the most important thing in the world. There have been a hundred mosh pits from Pantera and Slipknot to Marilyn Manson and Nine Inch Nails.

I don’t know how deep this runs. My life is set to the rhythm of dancing with friends, family, strangers, and lovers. It is heart beat. It is transcendent motion. It is outside ego, the untethering of the Self. Spiritual, euphoric, psychedelic. It is beyond reason and words, primordial, pre-lingual, the soul’s cry for return to the Infinite.

When we move together, we are together.

God bless and thank you for reading,
Jason

Metaphor is safer than reality. I can personify Fear and negotiate with it, write it down into small bits and throw open the windows to let Love pour in once again. Reality is people I don’t know how to talk to. The young man who labelled my home as “comfortable,” when he doesn’t know the first thing about a widowed parent’s life. The dear family member who said my parenting was acting in “pure ignorance.” The strangers and friends who have claimed that I don’t care about vulnerable populations when they know the volunteer work I do in my community. The father who moved away. The father figure slowly choosing lonely death over a populated life. The so-called family who turns me away when I come to town to visit. The friends who insist I am up to no good when I ask questions. The family who won’t return calls for help.

I haven’t let myself voice these grievances. I’ve tried to take Don Miguel Ruiz’s advice, “Don’t take anything personally.” I know he is right. I know that people act according to their own needs, traumas, and fear, not mine. I know I can’t control someone else’s negativity, I can’t save anyone. Nonetheless, I have allowed these slings and arrows to pierce me. Metaphor, Shakespeare…a sea of troubles…the safe poetry of my mind, where things can make sense again. A sunny Sunday morning where I can see Jesus calming the storm. I can feel myself at the edge of that sea, lying on my back in the surf, knowing that the tide will come and go whether I am there or not. The water is crystal clear and the sand smooths under my palms. I often use this imagery at the end of my yoga practice. I miss being in that hot room at the end of an intensely hot session. I miss lying back in savasana when the teacher opens the door and I feel the fresh air pass over me. She would lay a cool towel over each student’s eyes. In those moments I have felt a contentedness that has been a difficult to maintain in widowhood. During months without intimate touch, just the action of receiving a square of cloth, carefully prepared with gently cooling scents, reminded me that I am not alone. It was a small punch to read that that will now be one of the forbidden practices of life. Hugs, handshakes, high fives…we will be treating each other as if WE are the dis-ease. We will be protecting ourselves from others when the dis-ease is within us. We look at our neighbor as the problem when we are the problem. We blame those who will not obey or conform when it is our own self-hatred that weakens us and speeds our bodies’ decay.

My wife died from complications around influenza and bacterial infections. I don’t know if the prescriptions slowed the inevitable or sped it. I don’t know if the ventilator kept her alive or killed her. I don’t know how much self-love she was lacking. I don’t know how much pain and trauma she was carrying. It took me almost a year before I started looking at my own traumas, destructive patterns, and self-medications. It started with guilt. What could I have done differently to not have a dead wife? I knew Mary didn’t like my drinking. She never asked me to stop, but she asked me to get control over it. When I finally stopped, eight months after her death, it took weeks before my mind began to clear. I saw the path forward. I saw the lack of self-love that I was suffering at my own hands. I saw problems in brighter light and found solutions with more ease. Guilt again. What if I had done this work a year earlier? What if I had loved myself and loved Mary better? Could it have been that simple?

Of course, it ain’t simple. While on my guilty little trip of self discovery I fell in love with a woman who had a secret boyfriend. We tried polyamory, secretly, of course. While seeking truth I was building a life in the shadows. The journey is messy. That’s not enough, the journey sucks. I don’t want to write this. I want to go about my day, loving myself and my sons and my girlfriend and everyone in the world and see rainbows everywhere I go. I want to get along with people and hear their stories. Hug them when they need it. I don’t want to be called names when I am sincerely seeking the truth. I don’t want to be the bad guy.

“If you’re not pissing off the punks, then you’re a punk.”
-Ted Nugent

Living out loud will piss someone off. That’s their problem, not mine. I’m trying to see the Light, be the Light, and share the Light. At my best, that’s the Light of Jesus and The Word shining through me, the Light of Truth. At my worst, it’s loud, destructive noises.

Today I’m digging down to find simple kindness and releasing the pain and fear I’ve let into my life.

God bless and thank you for reading,
Jason