On the precipice of February.
Jan. 31st, 2011 02:49 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sechan19Boy, am I glad that January is finally behind me.
It's been a rough month for me, good times with great friends (you know who you are![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
foxxydancr and derrangedferret) notwithstanding. The stress of my first major conference presentation, the pressure of swinging back into classes after only a relatively brief hiatus, the near-constant cloud cover that plunged me into a nasty seasonal depression, and the memories - always perilously near the surface this time of year - bursting out at almost every turn.
In many cultures, the number three is imbued with mystical properties. In the ancient rites it forms the triad - the foundational base upon which powerful magics can be performed. In Christianity it signifies the unbroken trinity. In Buddhism the third month and the third year following death are important anniversaries.
This month marked the third year my uncle has been gone.
It doesn't feel like three years. Hell, it doesn't feel like three months since I last looked on his face, since I last told him I loved him, since I felt his passing in my heart, since I got word of his death. Even now, he's so much a part of my life - part of who I am - that I don't feel him gone sometimes.
But of course he is, and the signs of it are all around.
The grad school I was just beginning three years ago is now moving past the mid-way point. My uncle's children - childless and unmarried (although well on their ways to both) - are now married and raising his grandchildren.
I just gave a presentation at a conference for the first time. And though I drew the strength to do so in part from him, he was not there to see it as I know he would have been, if he could.
My uncle and I actually spent a lot of time together when I was growing up. We were no distant relatives. As a child he often took me to museums, to restaurants, to theme parks, to the symphony. As I grew older, we drank wine and played trivia games together. And we talked. We talked a lot.
He used to take me down to my grandparent's house when I was little, when neither of my parents could do it, and we'd drive together - just him and me - talking the whole way.
Mainly I talked, and he listened. And I honestly don't remember all the substance of my silly babbling (all the finer points of my effervescent nonsense) that he listened to so patiently and politely - as if all the ramblings of a little girl, or a pre-teen girl, or (god help us) a teenager, could be as interesting to him as the news of empire. But I remember well a time when I stopped talking and started asking.
And he answered.
And my uncle told me about how he learned to like coffee, and about what life was like in the army, and about what he did for a living.
When he told me that he was an expert witness for a living I was fascinated. But I was also rather daunted. It seemed like a scary, nerve-wracking sort of job to me. So I asked him, "Aren't you ever afraid you'll get into trouble on the stand? Not know an answer or give wrong information?"
And Uncle John, he said, "No. I'm always prepared, and I'm always right, and I'm never afraid."
I didn't realize it at the time, but my uncle was sharing with me the essence of his character. He was a man of principle, of courage, and of wisdom. He possessed both the wit and the presence of mind to meet the challenges of life without fear. He always knew that he'd prepared diligently, and he always backed the right cause. Consequently, he never needed to worry.
I'm not even remotely on his level. But I believe that one day I can be, and I know that this past month I took one of those vital steps toward being more like him, as I fervently prepared to give a presentation on my research and to face unknown questions about my facts and fancies. The conference brought my uncle very much to my mind. I believe he would have been proud to see me there, which makes me happy.
I owe him so very much for all he gave me over the years.
And I will never forget that - or him.
It's been a rough month for me, good times with great friends (you know who you are
foxxydancr and derrangedferret) notwithstanding. The stress of my first major conference presentation, the pressure of swinging back into classes after only a relatively brief hiatus, the near-constant cloud cover that plunged me into a nasty seasonal depression, and the memories - always perilously near the surface this time of year - bursting out at almost every turn.In many cultures, the number three is imbued with mystical properties. In the ancient rites it forms the triad - the foundational base upon which powerful magics can be performed. In Christianity it signifies the unbroken trinity. In Buddhism the third month and the third year following death are important anniversaries.
This month marked the third year my uncle has been gone.
It doesn't feel like three years. Hell, it doesn't feel like three months since I last looked on his face, since I last told him I loved him, since I felt his passing in my heart, since I got word of his death. Even now, he's so much a part of my life - part of who I am - that I don't feel him gone sometimes.
But of course he is, and the signs of it are all around.
The grad school I was just beginning three years ago is now moving past the mid-way point. My uncle's children - childless and unmarried (although well on their ways to both) - are now married and raising his grandchildren.
I just gave a presentation at a conference for the first time. And though I drew the strength to do so in part from him, he was not there to see it as I know he would have been, if he could.
My uncle and I actually spent a lot of time together when I was growing up. We were no distant relatives. As a child he often took me to museums, to restaurants, to theme parks, to the symphony. As I grew older, we drank wine and played trivia games together. And we talked. We talked a lot.
He used to take me down to my grandparent's house when I was little, when neither of my parents could do it, and we'd drive together - just him and me - talking the whole way.
Mainly I talked, and he listened. And I honestly don't remember all the substance of my silly babbling (all the finer points of my effervescent nonsense) that he listened to so patiently and politely - as if all the ramblings of a little girl, or a pre-teen girl, or (god help us) a teenager, could be as interesting to him as the news of empire. But I remember well a time when I stopped talking and started asking.
And he answered.
And my uncle told me about how he learned to like coffee, and about what life was like in the army, and about what he did for a living.
When he told me that he was an expert witness for a living I was fascinated. But I was also rather daunted. It seemed like a scary, nerve-wracking sort of job to me. So I asked him, "Aren't you ever afraid you'll get into trouble on the stand? Not know an answer or give wrong information?"
And Uncle John, he said, "No. I'm always prepared, and I'm always right, and I'm never afraid."
I didn't realize it at the time, but my uncle was sharing with me the essence of his character. He was a man of principle, of courage, and of wisdom. He possessed both the wit and the presence of mind to meet the challenges of life without fear. He always knew that he'd prepared diligently, and he always backed the right cause. Consequently, he never needed to worry.
I'm not even remotely on his level. But I believe that one day I can be, and I know that this past month I took one of those vital steps toward being more like him, as I fervently prepared to give a presentation on my research and to face unknown questions about my facts and fancies. The conference brought my uncle very much to my mind. I believe he would have been proud to see me there, which makes me happy.
I owe him so very much for all he gave me over the years.
And I will never forget that - or him.
