Existential, phenomenological, or maybe just sad

I keep having these moments. Existential moments where I replay the conversations that Sekai and I had about life, lives, living. Phenomenological moments where I question the experiences that he had, the experiences that we had, the experiences that I am having now, and the meaning behind them all.

Sekai would often ask what I had done when he was away, would ask what I was going to do when he went school and ask what I had done during the day when he got back home, would ask what I was going to do in the future. (Sometimes he would ask what I was going to do when he was gone, but I won't speak of that right now.) There were times when he referred to "our life". I often felt the need to explain that I have a life in my body and he has(d) a life in his body, life as in having breath, essence, being alive; and then we each have a life that we are living, like the day-to-day this is my life stuff; and then there is the life that we build together as a family, friends, or just people who choose to walk through life together. And that's where it would get fuzzy, because we did choose to go through life (life, the bigger life, the collective essences of all together) together, but that choice was taken from us (not going there right now). And he would go back to the top, and talk about his life when he was gone from me and I was gone from him and he had breath, but not a life, and was not sharing a life with anyone, really. And we would cry. Or I would, because at some point he stopped crying (not going there right now).

The existentialism--what is existence? What is a life? Sekai has passed on, his spirit is in heaven, his body in the ground, but surely he still exists. Every morning when I awaken, I remember him again, and remember again that he is dead. I hate to say that. But that's how it comes to my head every morning, and periodically throughout the day: OK, I'm awake. Do I have to get up right now? What's on my schedule today? What's going on in my life? Oh yeah/snap/****, my son is dead. My son is dead. What does that mean? He lives on in your memories or in your heart or in your work, people say. What does that mean? So he still has existence? He still has essence?

The phenomenological--what is the phenomenon of having a child taken? I wrote a paper on that a while ago. Considering revising and publishing. (Not going there in this blog right now.) Of being taken? What is the phenomenon of looking for, fighting for a child? Of wondering if you are being looked for, fought for? What is the phenomenon of reuniting with a child? Of being reunited with a parent? What is the phenomenon of losing a child? Ultimately losing? No fighting left to do. Nothing to do to bring him back. What is the phenomenon of...this!? What is the meaning? And of course, to even think of the experience, to think of the essence of what is happening, who is happening, to create a memory of it, to create meaning is to risk changing elements of the experience.

I am planning some travels over the next few weeks to visit some old friends, some of whom I have not seen in 18 years. Through Facebook, I have been able to reconnect with people who I have not seen or heard from as far back as the third grade. Talk about existential. People whom I saw practically every single day for a period of time, and then not at all for an even greater period of time. And now we communicate again, in some form. But they still existed all those years in between. Anyone who has added a friend on FB has done the quick search of the info page or flipped through pictures. Hmmm, what did this person do with their life since we were last in touch? That's the question that plagued Sekai. He wanted to know what I was doing when we could not get to each other, but he never had a good answer. And then when he was back, he was aware of and constantly reminded not just what I had been doing, but what everyone else had been doing to. He had a new godsister. There was an actual person created since the last time he had seen his family. These realities hurt him to his very deepest existence. I had described him to a therapist as the love child of Nell and Rip Van Winkle. If only he had been a loved child through it all, known that I was loving him even though I couldn't reach him. (NOT going there right now.)

Anyway, so I'm going to be traveling. Traveling always brings out the existentialism in me. You're here, they're there. You get in a car or on a plane. Hours pass. (The passing of time is a topic for another post.) Then you and they are together. You're in a completely different space/place, and sometimes time. The people you left behind are still there. When you go back, the people in the place you were visiting will still be there, and you catch back up to the others at home, go back to your life.

I fancy myself a philosopher, some days. Existentialist. Phenomenologist. (But very, very much a loving and loved child of God, daughter of the King, the Christ. Don't mistake me.) I think Sekai was truly a philosopher. He stayed up many nights just thinking. About his existence. My existence. Our existence together. The existence of all. His experience. My experience. Our experience together and apart and together. The experience of others like him. Being. Or not.

His pragmatics disability sometimes got in the way of his expression. Like many brilliant minds, he had what we refer to as severe learning disabilities. But his words, his thoughts, were deep, and we were beginning to establish a communication style where at times, we could shed the fears, the anxieties, the pain, and he would speak from his being and make himself known, make his perspective known. And one of the things that he would say was, "sometimes, I wish I did not exist." He would say it just like that. At first, he was saying, "sometimes I feel as if I do not exist." Very mystical. Then, after a particular incident, it became clear that it was not mysticism per se, but a twist of pragmatics. We did the language game, or un-game, and then he made it clear. "Sometimes, I feel as if I should not exist. I don't want to exist." And sometimes, "I wish I was never born". To not want to exist, to not want to be anymore, versus to not want to be born, to never have existed at all. And of course I would tell him how much I loved him, how much I thrilled at his having been born so that I could meet him and love him, and how much I wanted him to continue to exist, to be, to live, to have a life with me.

I could go on. And I will. I will go on in my life, Lord willing, but not in this post, not right now.