I've had a bit of a shock. After years of dithering and procrastination, I decided to reach out to my paternal uncle by writing him a letter and inserting it in the Christmas card sent to him, my aunt and my cousin. Due to a job loss in 2001 and a series of moves and the chaos that only extended unemployment can bring, I last corresponded with my uncle and great-uncle in 2003 .My uncle and I weren't close, it was only my late grandmother (his and my father's mother) and my great-uncle that kept me connected to that branch of my family. My father has been estranged from his family for almost 20 years, but my grandmothers corresponded, and surprisingly, he and my great-uncle (his uncle) got along famously.
My grandmother passed away in 1999, and my correspondence with my English relatives tapered off markedly after then. I did phone my great-uncle a few times, and my father even called him after moving upstate. My life became much busier after 2003, and even though I thought of him often, I did not reach out or put pen to paper. I know that my great-uncle moved from London to Hull to be near some of his brother's family, but did not correspond with him after that as my uncle now served as a gatekeeper of communications. Even though my uncle has lived in the same town in Shropshire since the 70's, I feared that he had sold his house and moved, so last year I Googled him and my late grandmother. I found her and her husband's (who predeceased her by about 2 years)names listed on the Telford Tree of Light, some sort of memorial fund-raiser. I Googled again after mailing the long-overdue card yesterday, and got the shock of my life when I read my Great-Uncle's name there.
My father and great-uncle physically resembled each other, and my great-uncle seemed to be a sensitive and refined man, if prone to depression. He led a tragic life, affected by paralyzing depression and the misfortune of having his only child die due to his wife's negligence. While my conversations with my great uncle were pleasant enough, he told my father that he was waiting for death, as he had tired of life.
He seemed to live in his own eccentric world, working as a painter, travelling to New York in the 50's, favoring Aquascutum clothing and bespoke suits, and always coming through when needed. On my last trip to Great Britain, he brought my grandmother the money for my airfare, in cash, presenting it to her in a paper sack. As his health declined, however, the clouds of depression settled in again. After my own battles with depression, and sensing that it runs in my father's family, I felt a sort of kinship with him. He also represented a link to an almost mythic past, with his flowery script penmanship, old-fashioned sense of honor, and fair features. Humbugs and organ music, commenting ,"What Adolph didn't blow up, they are tearing down", in response to the ugly modern buildings overtaking London's beautiful classic architecture,he was a link to a generation that fought for England and won. Perhaps his was the last truly English generation, not part of this forced PC/multicultural at the expense of indigenous culture/"let's try to be American" modern fiasco .
I'm awaiting my uncle's response to my letter, where I enquired about my great-uncle. It seems every time my uncle writes to me, it's to tell me that another family member has passed on. I feel guilty because I could have reached out sooner, could have passed along notes of encouragement to a depressed, sad man. Time after time I could have written, but never did so. I remember sitting in my Irving, TX hotel room on my first VZ business trip in 2004, thinking that it had been a year since I'd written and that I ought to do so. I brought along airmail writing paper, but spent my time staring at the Salt Lake Olympics, pining away for (as coincidence would have it) an English jackass who broke my heart and seething about his upcoming marriage to a ball-breaking harpy.
Years wore on, and minutes turned into hours as I surfed the web, reading livejournals and blogs and myspace pages of people who didn't care about me and who really don't matter, ignoring the people who loved me and probably needed me. I'm tortured by the thought that my great-uncle died thinking that I didn't care about him, or that I had died due to my lack of communication. If nothing else, this is the jolt I needed to put the past behind me for good. I just hope my great-uncle can forgive me, and knows how much I love and admire him.
I'm sad and crying and depressed, but I can appreciate the need to foster relationships that are important now, and the hell with those that are over or don't matter anymore. I've reached out to a few people I've lost contact with via mailed holiday cards, and am going to e-mail a few more people over the next couple of days. I'm tired of living in the past or in future fantasies which have little basis in grounded reality.
It's just the guilt that seems so heavy. I've never been one for feeling guilty, even when it may have been merited; now I feel it and feel it and feel it. I'm trying to work through things by writing about my more intimate feelings in a journal, creating this post, meditating, and reflecting on the painful lesson I've learned.
While I've pined for lost loves, gaining weight and hurting myself by wallowing in something that was only meant to be transient, I've lost time with and the opportunity to get to know someone who cares for me. That is one pattern I must break - focusing energy on people who don't care, desperately trying to win their love and approval, or trying to avenge or correct past wrongs. I think I jeopardize my future by doing this. We all analyze the past, seeking to learn from our missteps, but to churn it over and over leads to pathology.
Perhaps my consciously asking myself "What is the lesson in all of this pain?" is a sign of progress.
