Reflections on 28 Deaths

Twenty children, six adults, one mother and one son. Dead in Connecticut.

My heart is heavy. Twenty-eight deaths by gunshot in one day. We spasm through a communal grief, fear for the safety of every child, desire to have a giant rubber eraser for time. Can't we erase back to a point where other choices could be made? How far back would we have to go?

We don't see the dozens of other deaths by gunshot that occur each day singly and in isolation. Twenty-eight deaths by gun happen every day in America. It's quite common. We are not outraged. We do not spasm. It is not news. The grief, though, the grief flows out in waves of pain from pierced bodies.

I've had my griefs, my losses. Enough to know that grief does not kill you and it does not particularly make you stronger, but it does alter you. If you're lucky, it stretches the heart unbearably till it can hold the love that you can no longer physically express. And you end up with a more expansive understanding for those who suffer (including yourself). If you're not lucky, grief can seize up your emotional innards like hard water choking off the openings in a shower head. I've had it happen both ways. It hurts both ways.

I am not in shock from the shootings in Connecticut. I am horrified, but not surprised by this lone gunman with his weapons of mass destruction. His life was a surfeit of guns. When you go crazy, you grab what's handy. It might be a credit card. It might be a knife. It might be language. If you are surrounded by guns, you grab guns. It's no surprise. I don't know why death comes as such a surprise. It is our one truly universal experience. Maybe if we acknowledged this truth more we would kill less. It's a paradox.

I am calm about my own death. I know I will go into the ground and eventually rejoin the processes of my planet--erosion, remodeling, creation, destruction. I know that any impact I have must be in the here and now. I can't waste my time. I have come out of the earth, my body made of water, carbon, calcium, iron, and many other earth elements. It makes sense that as I rise up as an entity I then subside back into the arms of the mother planet. I am comforted.

Although I have just posited a soul-less death, I feel like our national obsession with guns is an illness of the soul, the sacred psyche. These young men who kill so spectacularly are so desirous of acknowledgement of some kind, desirous of comfort, of meaning. My heart goes out to them as much as to grieving loved ones of the dead. Many of us have felt the way those young men feel, but we either (1) did not have access to a huge amount of ammunition and ready guns or (2) had resources, had relationships, and, in my case, had a few treasured gifts like the ability to express in words and an indomitable sense of humor. We are them. They are us.

The song that keeps repeating in my mind is "Where Have All the Flowers Gone." It's meant to mourn the loss of young men in war but seems entirely apt to describe the loss of children in an armed nation. Where have all the flowers gone, long time passing? Where have all the flowers gone, long time ago? Where have all the flowers gone? Gone to graveyards, every one. When will we ever learn? When will we ever learn?"

Winnie-the-Pooh, by A.A. Milne

Disney's Pooh

Mild, gentle, genuine, funny. The Winnie-the-Pooh stories are wonderful. Somehow I feel that not much is going on and then find that much has. Winnie-the-Pooh and his friends roam through the hundred-acre woods exploring their world and their friendships. If there's a child inside you, give A.A. Milne's classics another read. If there's a child beside you, these stories are essential.

I read a compilation of the Pooh stories called A World of Winnie-the-Pooh, which contained all of the stories on my Eager Reader's list--and added in some poetry. It also included the original illustrations by E.H. Shepard, which are much more evocative and whimsical than the heavily delineated Disney versions with which we are over-familiar. (E. H. Shepard was an illustrator for Punch, which Milne wrote for.) However, this volume was over-sized and ran to more than 200 pages. It was heavy to hold and the line lengths were too long for the type size. I never felt comfortable while reading it. Loved the content. Hated the packaging.

E.H. Shepard's Pooh

It is impressive that these little characters--stuffed animals come to life--maintain their dignity and personhood through a range of adventures and problems. Their character flaws are accepted in a friendly way, mocked a little bit, but not seen as any barrier to affection. For example, Rabbit likes to organize. The friends go to him when they need organization. And then politely ignore him.

Pooh is presented as "the bear of very little brain," and is thought stupid by himself and the others (except for human boy Christopher Robin). Pooh's smart solutions to the jams he and his pals get in are considered cause for wonder. And they are all amazed that with such a small brain (or not brain at all), Pooh comes up with relevant poetry for every occasion. I can see how children, who are so often dismissed by older siblings and adults, would relate wonderfully to Pooh, who makes big mistakes with absolutely no malice aforethought. He maintains his integrity. Maybe little kids can also.

The stories are saturated with the loving kindness that Milne must have felt for his son (Christopher Robin Milne). He enters into the world of childhood with a light touch and an understanding of the seriousness of slight things and the slightness of serious things. The dialogue is plain old funny--through it each character is fully revealed. Eeyore: "It's snowing still... And freezing. However," he said brightening up a little, "we haven't had an earthquake lately."

I don't remember reading the Pooh books as a child. Somehow, though, they wafted into my consciousness. I knew about them long before I read them. I believe that I saw cartoons of them (probably the Disney movies) before I read the books. I remember very little of what I did read as a child. I don't have memories of being tucked into bed with a story. We did go to the library a lot and I knew that my oldest sister and my mom always brought home books and read them. I knew that Dad and Grandma read the newspaper every day.

Cabin in ice storm

The first real book I remember was a chapter book that I liked so much I checked it out over and over again--but I can't remember the title. It was a juvenile mystery about a group of middle-school-aged children (and adult chaperones) who got trapped in a cabin during an ice storm. And, of course, a criminal was on the loose. The ice storm gave a surreal survivalist feel to the book and the criminal put the children in just enough jeopardy for the reader to be thrilled without being terrified. If anyone knows the title of this book, let me know. I checked it out over and over again from the children's department at the Middletown Public Library in the mid to late 1960s.

I'm struggling to make this post longer, but there isn't that much to say about Winnie-the-Pooh. It is so straightforward and unaffected...no need to dig deeper than what it presents. Get it. Read it. Laugh with it, cry with it. Practice the forgiveness and acceptance it portrays. Enjoy.