This magnolia has more blooms each season after Mary’s passing. It’s her way of blessing our path.
Quality and Quantity
The Usefulness of Triggers
Widowhood won’t leave you alone for long. It creeps up in the weirdest ways.
My boys and I say down this week to watch the Tron movies. I thought I had seen the sequel, but as the opening scenes began, I realized that it was an unfinished plan I shared with Mary.
We had watched the original film together in 2017. Were going to watch the new one. We didn’t get that chance.
It didn’t hurt. I didn’t see any great opportunity for healing or a need to share this rather small observation with my sons.
But I see this as a place to share those little things. One day my sons may need this story. Maybe they’ll need to know how much of their mother’s legacy they are a seamless part of. They complete, and at once continue, the life that seems to have been cut short.
God bless, thank you, I appreciate you,
Jason
Digging for Courage: Dirt Therapy
The garden was Mary’s domain. I’ve been intimidated to enter it. I’ve been put on notice about treating *her* plants improperly. I let go of some of that today. It’s not easy to take ownership and risk losing blooms that remind us of her. But like everything else, life is for the living. And I know Mary would want nothing more than a vegetable garden tended to by her sons.
We have the opportunity to do so through Winterthur’s Kids Grow program. The boys are veterans of the program, but I’m new to the hard parts. In the past I’ve mostly harvested and eaten their delicious produce.
Due to governmental restrictions, the program must be done from home. This program gets children out into the sun, with their hands in the dirt, strengthening their immune systems. The irrationality of limiting activities like this and all the wonderful summer camps makes me very sad.
But nothing can stop me from doing what is right for myself and my sons. We spent much of the day tackling a half-tended-to flower bed, preparing it for our new vegetable seeds.
The last picture is of sunflowers that are coming up from seeds that were dropped two years ago. Along with some hostas and purple bean plants, they are the only green to survive the prep.
Sunflowers were a favorite of Mary’s, as were the purple bean plants and hostas.
We planted the tomato plants that Winterthur provided and look forward to learning about the wealth of seeds that were sent home with us.
God bless and thank you for reading,
Jason
Still Blooming
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.
‐‐‐
We shouldn’t take too much credit for Mary’s Magnolia. I recognize God first in its visual beauty and calming aroma.
‐‐‐
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.
—
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.
—
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.
—
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.
—
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.
—
God bless and thank you for reading,
Jason
Friday Dance Gratitudes
1. Westen’s dance with a friend. A widow friend of mine was watching the boys recently and likes to have dance parties. I wasn’t there, but she said Westen agreed to dance with her. It was such a sweet thing, but struck me hard. Mary was very affectionate. She taught me the importance of touch as I had come from a family that didn’t express love in that way. I cannot provide a loving, female touch for my sons. I’m grateful for the friends who will break the rules. I am grateful for those who choose life and love over fear and death.
2. James Brown, Woodstock ’99. Officially the first act of the weekend, we were a little late to the grounds and didn’t have a great spot on the gently sloping hill. “Dude. When the music starts, let’s jump up and crowd surf closer.” Doubt crossed my buddy’s face. “I’m too tall, they’ll never keep me up.” “No way man, just keep hollering so people know you’re coming, if they push you the wrong way, roll towards the stage, trust me.” He didn’t trust me. Brown’s hype man came on and I said, “Okay, I’ll meet you at the tent later.” It was the first time I had crowd surfed during the day and it was a blast. I grooved right towards the stage and, at times, rolled like I was a kid on a hill. I dropped into a dance circle (crowd density will put you in a dance circle or mosh pit, depending) and let loose to a legend. It was the last time I got on top of a crowd. There were some scary moments that weekend. It was my first personal experience of imminently dangerous mob mentality. I’m grateful for my insane adventures, dancing in the middle of a riot (a separate gratitude, perhaps), and an inherent immunity to following the crowd.
3. Seu Jorge, The Trocadero, Philly, 2006. That was the year France knocked a cocky Brazil out of the World Cup. Hours before Mary and I were to see, as it turned out, Brazil’s most disappointed fans.
I can’t recall if there was an opening act or if they were so lackluster as to be forgotten, but I do remember the empty stage that seemed to last for an eternity before Jorge appeared. Nearly half the crowd gave up and eventually left. Mary and I went to the balcony to have a seat, the wait was long. I noticed a man wearing France’s colors, beaming with joy. That was weird, even the die hards still present were getting surly. “Oh no. Honey. The band is Brazilian.” I had watched the game. Truly a devastating loss for a team that had cruised to the quarterfinals. “Even if they come on, they’re probably wasted. Okay, this’ll be a story at least. If they suck we’ll roll out.”
They did suck. Lifeless, shoulders drooped, they shuffled on stage. Mary and I were let down, we had become huge fans after seeing Jorge play Bowie songs in Portuguese in The Life Aquatic With Steve Zissou. Then, like a time lapse video in health class, we watched the healing power of music. It was transfixing. Life crawled back into their bodies. It seemed to take ages, but they started moving to the music. The crowd felt it. We had stayed in the balcony, watching in near disbelief. It became a party. The audience was small, but the energy pendulum swung as high into positivity as it had into negativity. The band entered the crowd and they all swirled to the music. We marveled and moved with the human hurricane from our place in space. It was pure gratitude, healing, and redemption. The band was grateful for those who had stuck it out, the crowd was grateful for the band’s ability to rescue a presumably failed evening, and we were grateful to be a part of this unique moment in concert history.
4. Love Seed Mama Jump, Anson B. Nixon Park, Kennett Square, PA, 2018. Just me and the boys. Nonstop dancing. We had a soccer ball near the stage and bopped and clowned among hula hoopers and kids. No cares. All fun.
5. Hoots and Hellmouth, Mushroom Festival, Kennett Square, PA, 2019. I was the first one on the dance floor. The boys had friends with them and were nearly embarrassed by me. I was feeling myself. Hoots is one of the best foot stomping bands you’ll ever see. I’ve been a fan since their previous West Chester incarnation, Pilot ‘Round the Sun. On our first date as parents, Mary had to “pump and dump” between Hoots sets in 2009.
My friend Lori joined me on the dance floor and I Iike to think we shamed all the twenty-somethings sitting on their duffs. I’m grateful for not giving a darn. I’m grateful for knowing just how short life might be. I’m grateful for the healing power of movement. I’m grateful for every dance.
God bless and thank you for reading,
Jason
Dance Memories, Sucka
Our Sunday School leader launched a gratitude project this week and I’m blessed with a daily regimen of gratitudes. I think this is Day 48 of practicing the Wim Hof Method (I’m up to 5 rounds of 30 intentional breaths with an extended retention after the last breath and 4-5 minutes of cold shower each day [I’ve missed 3 or 4 showers]). During the breath retentions and cold shower, I often mentally recite affirmations and thank God for specific blessing in my life.
For my gratitude project, I’m going to focus on important dance memories. Dancing is a spiritual exercise. I am grateful for the moments I’ve let go in movement.
1. Reverend Peyton’s Big Damn Band playing “Lay Your Burden Down” while Isaac was on my shoulders and we were slipping and sliding on muddy ground. It was our first road trip after losing Mary. She and I had seen Rev. Peyton the previous year in Lancaster and danced our front-row butts off.
2. Summer Music Festival at Delaware Art Museum: Mary and the boys and I danced through the entire Spokey Speaky set to close the night. It was mostly kids and we did that careless and carefree dancing that you can only do when adults aren’t getting in the way.
3. Watching the boys, especially Westen, get loose to music at parties, weddings, music festivals, the Lego table, or the kitchen. I often catch him in a little groove while building or helping me with dinner.
4. A slow dance to Sinatra with my girlfriend in the kitchen this past weekend. Her companionship, love, and help has made these months feel more like thriving than surviving.
5. Mountain Jam 2019: A unique experience. The boys will soon be too old and cool to spend that much time dancing with their dad. But dance we did. Front row for Sister Sparrow and the Dirty Birds, Toots and the Maytals, and Michael Franti. All favorites of Mary. We snuck into a VIP show with Franti and the boys ended up on stage for both of his performances. Toots was my first concert and dance with Mary in Dewey Beach. We danced with Sister Sparrow’s sister, Isaac on my shoulders again.
-Isaac and I were the only males in a morning hula hoop workshop.
-We discovered a band called Bella’s Bartok and danced with their hype squad adorned in giant Carnivale-like costumes (them, not us, although the boys played with some props).
-Danced with strangers and made friends (I might have a memoir title there).
God bless and thank you for reading,
Jason
Dance, Sucka
“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
Playing the Widow Card
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
Mary’s Tree at St. Mary’s
I had to escape my boys the other day. Things had gone sideways and we all needed space and time to come down from terrible heights.
—
With little plan I ended up at St. Mary Magdalen Parish. Weeks ago I had read a neighborhood post asking a simple request: Does anyone have magnolia leaves they would be willing to donate for Easter decorations? I DM’d the man who wanted to do something special outside the church that would stand empty on the most important day of the Christian year.
—
When he came by, I didn’t expect him to want much contact, but we chatted for a while and he told me of his son recovering from coronavirus in NYC. In his 40s, strong, you wouldn’t expect it, he said. We stood under my magnolia and I couldn’t tell him my story. I couldn’t tell him that that tree had picked Mary and Mary had picked that house before she saw much more than the tree. I couldn’t tell him about how she was strong, in her 40s, and killed by an unexpected virus.
—
That tree has bloomed more in the two years since we lost Mary than it did in previous years. Those weeks are coming soon again. I don’t know how many times I’ve been resurrected in these two years, but I know much of me has died away.
—
I’m going through another one of those deaths now. It seems the whole world is on the ride this time. Even Spring is dreadfully lacking in color and life. These deaths don’t get much easier, but I’m getting better at valuing them. And like each of my resurrections, I expect a brighter world to emerge.
God bless and thank you for reading,
Jason
Delaware Fun-A-Day 18: Peace Between Animals
Compassion. Evolution. Creativity.
Westen, 10-going-on-teen, started this scene with a hunter looking for prey. In real life, we got the opportunity to purchase this white wolf and it seemed like the perfect challenge for his minifigure.
Westen cleverly staged the scene, awaiting the meet-up with the wolf’s former owner.
We got the wolf and I wasn’t paying attention as the scene was finished.
I saw the hunter lying beside the build and asked, “Westen, are you going to finish your scene?” He had built a small platform for the minifigure that blended with the surroundings and allowed for a variety of positions, I was eager to see these considerations incorporated.
“It’s ready, Dad.”
“But what about the hunter?”
“The wolf looked too peaceful, so he’s just hanging with his bunny buddy.”
It instantly became a spirit journey scene for me. I wonder if he’s the bunny riding through a peaceful wood on his mama’s back. I wonder how much good happens when we gather around the Lego table and build side-by-side.
Mary overlooks our work. We made this figure for the bowsprit of a fantastical boat we built together in the weeks after losing her.
She loved building with her boys and she was the queen of sorting. She had an organized mind, I could never keep up with her.
She might be aghast at sacrificing our largest room exclusively to Lego, but I think she’d allow some leeway under the circumstances.
God bless and thank you for reading,
Jason