In Sunday school when we were kids, my brother was asked to draw a picture of the ascension of Christ. He was four or five, a literal little boy. He drew a pair of sandaled feet hanging down from a puffy white cloud over a field of daisies.
We grew up going to Sunday school at St. Matthew’s Episcopal Church where we were taught we’d all go to heaven when we died, and for a long time Teddy’s drawing captured my sense of what that meant. I thought we’d float up from the Earth, pass through the clouds and then hang out in a puffy, white land with a fatherly God who sat in a big throne and had a long, flowing white beard. I imagined we’d be able to bound around, leaping from one cloud to the next. I wasn’t sure what else we’d do up there. I couldn’t be bothered to ponder that part for long. I assumed we’d look the same as we did in life, but hadn’t figured out if that meant the same at age 8? 20? 80?
I can’t recall exactly when I began to doubt that image. But somewhere along the line, science replaced faith for me, and I no longer believed I was heading for the fluffy clouds above. I knew I would die and that frightened me once I decided there was no bouncing heaven waiting for me. But I didn’t come up with any alternatives.
And then Pete died. His death forced me to confront my fear and ambivalence about what happens to us if there is no heaven.
I recently pulled out my journal from that first year. My handwriting changes with different entries, sometimes it’s neat and controlled, my normal all-caps printing, other times it’s a cursive scrawl that I can barely read. But you don’t have to catch all the words to understand what I’m saying. Over and over, I wrote, “Where are you, Pete? Where are you? I want to talk to you. I want you.”
If he wasn’t floating around in the clouds, where was he? What was he? Was he even he? Without religion, I did not have an answer. I couldn’t fully embrace the idea that Pete was nothing. The finality of that stopped my breathing, left me gasping. I could not conceive of the sudden extinguishing of life — of his brilliant, beautiful life. But what was the alternative?
After Pete died, someone sent me Pema Chodron’s book “When Things Fall Apart.” It was the first time I’d grappled with the idea of nonattachment. Chodron writes about the idea of letting go — letting go of the things that make you fearful be they material possessions or your emotional ties to life. She herself let go by becoming a Buddhist nun, stepping away from her role as a wife, mother, professional to embrace the role of spiritual teacher. Or at least that’s what I read. I could barely get through the book. Not because I did not agree and recognize the power of her words and the wisdom of her path, but because I could not see past my daughter’s green eyes. I could not abandon my grief over Pete’s death. I heard nonattachment to mean you could not love people or you were destined to suffer.
I was attached to Pete and Avery. I clung to them desperately. They defined me and brought me joy. I wanted them in my life. I was not whole without them. If that meant I would suffer at their loss, it seemed like that was part of the deal. I got the joy and love and then I’d have to pay for it. And the payment was hard, but would I forego the love to avoid it?
I recognize that I didn't really understand Chodron’s writings. I resisted them, convinced they meant I could not be attached to people, which I took to mean I could not love them. But her words plagued me like that ringing in your ears after a loud concert. It was a nagging sensation I could not ignore because fundamentally I knew she was right. I was not listening to what she really had to say because I was afraid to.
Sometimes I make lists of what is important to me. Usually it starts with people, then it moves to things like snow, flowers, mountains, water. The list doesn’t include my new dress, my favorite earrings, my skiis, my computer or cell phone. But I spend a lot of time obsessing on those things. Why? Do they make me feel whole? Do they make my life richer? No, they are just things. I get that being attached to them is a waste of time and energy. But people? People bring meaning to my life. I am attached to them.
Right after Pete died, I remember flying to Finland with Avery and thinking that if she weren’t beside me on the airplane, I wouldn’t care if we dropped into the sea. I really felt detached from everything except my grief. It wasn’t a good feeling, but there was some freedom to it. Planes always frighten me, and so it was strangely relaxing not to give a shit if the engine noise changed or we hit turbulence.
But that emptiness has refilled. I no longer don’t care about anything. I am attached, to Avery, to Allen, to my friends and family, to the Earth, and this attachment brings fear for what happens after we die. And yet perhaps one way to face this fear is to think more carefully about what Chodron meant. I think I understand now that she was not saying don’t love, but was saying that in loving we need to recognize the impermanence of those relationships and to make sure we nurture them every day. Because you never know what is going to happen tomorrow, so don’t regret what you did or didn’t do today.