The best part of me was you.

The best part of me was you. by sashanaomi on Polyvore.com

Finally, I am posting a polyvore I made ;) My favorite so far, I might add.
and here's a quote, since I am so emersed in study of Kierkegaard and his works right now:


"Life must be understood backwards; but...it must be lived forward." -Soren Kierkegaard

I'm Just Losing Myself (For Abbster(Icon requests)) by PaisleyBear☺ on Polyvore.com

I'm not losing myself. You can't lose something you've never found.

shane ryan turns 22.

Shane Ryan Ellis by sashanaomi on Polyvore.com

The Shane I picture stops at 14. I look at my husband day to day and think of how he is only two months older than Shane, but I can't imagine Shane at 22.

Because he is stuck in 2001.

Because, for some reason, he was not allowed to live longer.

Maybe this is because God spared him from some pain to come. But to us, no pain is greater than Shane being gone. Maybe God chose Shane because he was already the best person he could ever be. I don't know why, and I don't think I will ever know.

A week ago was the first time I watched a home video of Shane since his death. It was bittersweet watching him dance across my old living room. And yes, literally dance; Shane, Dustin, Brooke, and I were leaping across the living room floor to some retro 90's music. As I watched, I couldn't take my eyes off of him. He laughed, and laughed, and laughed. First because little one-year-old Seth was jumping onto his stomach, once because Dustin and he wrestled each other to the floor. I watched him pick me up and spin me around. I hugged my 2009 body, knowing at that one moment of time, Shane embraced my 1995 body.

The most difficult thing about watching that video was the feeling that it was happening now. The noises, the voices, the music, the laughter was all 13 years past. But no, Shane is not dead, because I see him alive in the video. He lives in that picture. Seth did not just turn 15, because he is only 1 in that picture. Time is not now, it is then. For a second, I can reel back time and hug Shane.

I still have his embrace in my skin. I still have his laughter fresh in my mind. I still have the memories to hold close to me and to write down.

Nothing, not even time, can take this away.

Happy 22nd birthday, Shane.

P.S. I have kept a journal of letters to Shane since October 28, 2001. I would like to share a few entries in memory of Shane on his birthday, and in honor of the person who has to hurt the most of all of us, my dear Aunt Dana.

October 28, 2001
It was nice to know you while it lasted, but we still have forever! Don't ever forget me. I know I never will. I'll tell my children of the love you changed lives with and of all the memories we shared. I promise, Shane, your love will carry on.

The main reason I want to have you here is because of all the grief everyone has. I have to deal with my mom crying a lot, and I don't like when she crys. It hurts me when she crys. It makes me sad. I love when she smiles and laughs. It makes me happy. It's like I'm a part of her. And I am. But your mom is the one, I think, with the most grief. Your death tore her whole life and body apart, into a million pieces and she can never be put back together. Never. Not on Earth, anyway. I'm not blaming you, though. Your body just couldn't take it anymore. And you are lucky because you are in no pain at all, and you, right now, are in the paradise of God, Jesus and angels. You have seen the face of God! I can't believe it.

November 4, 2001
Well, I don't know what to talk about. Well, maybe I will give you a memory:
MEMORY:
This wasn't too long ago, but it was probably when you were in 6th or 7th grade. I think it was 6th grade. Anyway, you were going to a dance with Samantha. You were going out with her. You and her were boyfriend and girlfriend. You were really nervous. You know, you were quiet and shy. You didn't know which shirt you were going to wear for the dance. I think the shirts were new. You went around and asked everyone which shirt looked better. Finally you picked out a shirt, and I remember it have a cool pattern and bright colors. I remember your mom being so excited and smiling and being happy. Her heart was nothing but happy before you died. You got your heart from her. You were a part of her. When you were no longer here, a part of her wasn't, either. You were her happiness. You were her life.

December 31, 2001
I don't really want to end this year at all because 2002 will be the first year I won't have your face to look at, or any happiness through listening to you play the piano.

I guess this book could go on forever. Or, at least, until I die. That would be a long Dear Shane book. Or maybe not. You know, I remember you smiling and hugging your mom and saying that you and her were going to grow old together, and you said you were going to live with her and take care of her even when you're 30.

I guess your ribbon of love will tie us all into a tighter, more beautiful bow forever.

solidified syrup of loss.

"Let me tell you what happens when you cook down the syrup of loss over the open fire of sorrow: It solidifies into something else. Not grief, like you'd expect, or even regret. No, it gets thick as paste, black as ash; yet it isn't until you dip a finger in and feel that sharp taste dissolving on your tongue that you realize this is anger in its purest form, unrefined; a substance to be weighed and measured and spread.

-Jodi Picoult, Vanishing Acts

I thought of you when I read this paragraph today.

This is a tribute to you, who lost someone you cherished. A loss so true that it has to be a nightmare. A loss that makes trouble with the mother-in-law or a difficult boss seem microscopic in comparison. A loss that makes you angry that the world still spins without him; people can still smile and sing and dance, but you can't. Not like you did.

Every second that passes is a miracle. You look back and don't know how you made it to where you are, to how you are. And it will never be the same; you know it, but you have to trick your mind into thinking it will be okay, because if you don't, you just might not make it to the next miracle.

This is a tribute to the one who is drowning in the syrup of loss, who has to force her eyes to see the light at the end of the tunnel because it is either too dim to see, or not there at all.

We are drowning with you, and for you.

what is your worst fear?

Watch this music video, and you will discover my worst fear coming true.

Breathe in
Breathe out
Tell me all of your doubts
Everybody bleeds this way
Just the same

Breathe in
Breathe out
Move on and break down
If everyone goes away
I will stay

We push and pull
And I fall down sometimes
I'm not letting go
You hold the other line

Cause there is a light
In your eyes...

Hold on, Hold tight
If I'm out of your sight
And everything keeps moving on
Moving on
Hold on, Hold tight
Make it through another night
Everyday, there comes a song
With the dawn

We push and pull
And I fall down sometimes
But I'm not letting go
You hold the other line

Cause there is a light
In your eyes...

Breathe in
And breathe out
Breath in
And breathe out
Breathe in
And breathe out
Breathe in
And breathe out

Look left
Look right
To the moon
And the night
Everything under the stars
Is in your arms

Cause there is a light
In your eyes...

The bold lyric (of my doing) is what makes this song come alive to me. Losing someone is so terrifying and heinous because against your will, but life keeps moving on. You cannot stop or reverse time, as much as you wish you could. But, somehow, you make it through another night. Somehow, the sun still rises in the morning. You breathe in and breathe out.

The sun has no sympathy for the circumstances. Nature does not care how you live or die, who you love or hate. It does not care how much you have left to do in life; it takes you by surprise, and it does not take gracefully.

Like Stephen Crane says in The Open Boat,

"When it occurs to a man that nature does not regard him as important, and that she feels she would not maim the universe by disposing of him, he at first wishes to throw bricks at the temple, and he hates deeply the fact that there are no bricks and no temples. Any visible expression of nature would surely be pelleted with his jeers. Then, if there be no tangible thing to hoot at he feels, perhaps, the desire to confront a personification and indulge in pleas, bowed to one knee, and with hands supplicant, saying: 'Yes, but I love myself.'"

It is my worst fear to lose him without the sun's sympathy.