The Happy Phantom
I can be a bit of a festive decorator. And Autumn is the kickoff to that.
September had barely turned it calendar page and I was buying some Halloween accents at the House of Target. Specifically, a cute little package, containing two small ghosts, labeled “Grow Ghosts.”
This little guy pictured here.
Cute is my Kryptonite and cute faces, forget it!
Singer, Tori Amos has been a favorite artist of mine. She exploded onto the music scene in 1992 with her incredible album, “Little Earthquakes.” A music critic once sang her praises, recommending the album to anyone who wants to understand women better.
True that.
One of my favorite songs on the album is “The Happy Phantom.”
Some of its lyrics…
“Oo who
The time is getting closer
Oo who
Time to be a ghost
Oo who
Every day we're getting closer
The sun is getting dim
Will we pay for who we been?”
Years after I first became familiar with the song, it has popped up again, because of not just my little Grow Ghost guy here, but also because of my two years and going cancer diagnosis reality.
Now, the whimsy of the song (and yes, it is whimsical), adds more poignancy for me.
But I’m getting a bit ahead of myself.
Back to My Grow Ghost guy.
Once I got this package home, I wanted to get cracking at it. I have a terminal case of the big kid in me. I’d probably decorate Easter eggs now if I could. Alas, wrong time of year; I don’t think I can find any of the PAAS kits now.
Anyway, the instructions directed me to soak this cute little happy phantom in a bowl of water to allow for the magic to happen. Simple enough. The instructions recommended a full 72 hours to let the ghost do its thing.
And the instructions also chastened, “be patient.”
(Uh-huh. Antsy me? No problem).
Anyway, for the next three days, I checked out its progress. Day one, it was barely budging. Day two, there was an increase of an inch. And finally, day three, it had doubled in size.
When I took this not-so-little Grow Ghost out of the water, dried him off (he was quite slimy) and set him out on display, that whimsical smile, now enlarged, kept bringing my attention back to Tori Amos’ song.
“Oo who
The time is getting closer…”
Mortality.
I’ve written about this subject matter before. Cancer brought that to the forefront for me. My diagnosis reminded me that death is a part of life. Cliché, I know.
But “The time is getting closer” for all of us.
“…Oo who
Time to be a ghost…”
Likewise, each of us cannot avoid the reality that our temporary shell, our human bodies, will be shed. We may not look like the cute little Grow Ghost. We may not resemble the familiar Halloween costume of a sheet over ourselves, but you and I are spirits, transcending the body. Recognition of that fact can, therefore, place us in a position in which we are willing to embrace being transparent, “see through,” with ourselves, others, life and truth, in general.
I know. It’s a tall order.
We choose how we’ll respond when it is, indeed, “time to be a ghost.”
How am I responding, thus far?
Well, I swing the gamut between epic freak outs/crying jags, to settling into an emboldened form of assurance/confidence. For me, now, there’s no point in hiding or lying. Neither will prevent the ghost from happening.
“…Oo who
Every day we're getting closer…”
One day less.
What will this day look like? What can I do with this day, cancer, or no cancer?
I remember, as a kid, reading Sylvia Plath’s book, “The Bell Jar.” I was struck by how this female character, grappling with her mental health, mused on exactly how many showers/baths she had left to experience in her life.
I, likewise, muse on things.
How many days do I have left in this thing known as my life on the planet?
How many sunrises and sunsets?
How many birthdays and holidays?
How many times will my cat cuddle with me?
How many encounters with the special people in my life will I experience?
How many more times will I tweeze my eyebrows?
Every day, I am getting closer…
How much am I a Happy Phantom about that reality? It varies, from day to day. Nevertheless, my spirit is preoccupied about the “how many left” question.
I can shove it down. It still pops up like a beachball held underwater.
“…The sun is getting dim…”
Ah, yes. What’s the opposite of day, with its sunshine?
Night.
Night, with, seemingly, endless silence and its pitch-black atmosphere.
Dark night of the soul, in five, four, three, two…
Ever have one of these suckers?
Insomnia has plagued me most of my life. Cancer, however, has made those days of garden variety tossing and turning seem downright quaint.
Just too much caffeine. Worried about how I’ll do on a test. Anxiety about paying a bill.
Oh, how innocent.
Cancer, since 2017’s diagnosis, has made, well, the dark night of the soul a little pricklier.
Again, death thoughts. Nothing but fun death thoughts, lying awake for hours. I have tried escaping it, from time to time, by watching Netflix, journaling, reading, but I usually struggle in the concentration department.
Because, cancer. Because, death.
Because, insert humanity cliché here.
Yep, c’est moi, blinking in darkness.
There is nothing new under the sun (note my pun) about this.
The sun gets dim on all of us.
Cancer just makes things more real. Survivorship doesn’t eliminate the death threat. It can sometimes be, at best, a semi-colon. It’s a pause, the gentle, dark night of the soul reminder that “this isn’t over yet.”
Dark night, dim sun. Same difference. No escaping either.
I know. This is a fun pep talk.
But often, in the middle of these many dark nights, I’ve used it as that very pep talk.
Again, cliché alert. This is not a human experience, solely picking on one person with the death reality. Each person dies.
Needlepoint that on a pillow.
Do what you want, but that freaking sun is getting dim.
No amount of busying oneself or denying it will change it. The ghost needs to appear at night, not during the day.
“…Will we pay for who we been?”
Going back to my little Grow Ghost buddy, the smiling, enlarged novelty item soon reverted to its original size after just a few days.
Just like that.
Why did it do that?
Should I overanalyze it like I usually do about everything else?
Sackcloth and ashes? What did I do wrong? What did Ghost-y do wrong?
Was any progress made in vain?
The simple, yet, extremely dissatisfying answer was this: he was just returning to his original state.
Anticlimactic. No judgment, just matter-of-fact reality.
Cancer- death- imperfect life beg questions of us, don’t they?
How do we return to our original states? What will that look like?
What IS our Karma? Our reward? Our punishment?
“…Will we pay for who we been?”
This is a squirmy question to think about.
Faith has been a large part of my life. And, while beliefs have changed over time, the core remains. I believe there is a Creator. No one certainly could just hatch by themselves.
So, what, exactly, is each person supposed to do with that?
Principles of good and evil, sin, atoning, making amends…where’s the line drawn, separating “our side” from “Divine stuff?”
Cliché humanity rears its head again.
Cancer can really get a person examining such cliché minutia, like their lives, their souls, depended on it. And I am ever a part of that cliché now. I’m digging deep, searching for that elusive inner peace. That’s a large chunk of what it’s all about, right?
Peace with oneself. What’s meaningful? What can we let go of?
How do we return to the former incarnation of self, as Ecclesiastes 3:20, so succinctly, states?
“…all are of the dust, and all turn to dust again.”
No matter what my flaws, faults, sins, efforts and accomplishments are, I will return to my original state.
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
Am I a happy phantom about that?
Do I possess the same whimsical grin as my Grow Ghost buddy?
Sometimes I do. Sometimes, it’s sackcloth and ashes time. Sometimes, it’s an ugly cry.
Cliché.
Dag-nabbit! Just cannot get away from the cliché!
Doomed to humanity. Film at eleven.
The Challenge: Write Your Own Lyrics:
Each of us needs to face what is. Not what we desire, hope for, cling to, but what is.
What is? Temporary life. Mortality. Imperfection.
Yet, despite those things, we can write our own songs, known as our lives. What will that look and sound like?
How will we haunt the world when we’re gone? I’m not talking about shouting “Boo” or rattling chains. I’m talking about the unique impact we have on this thing called life. What will that be? When you and I have moved on, being fully spirit, what remains?
Death is democratic; life continues, in spite of mortality.
For some of us out there, this is good news.
For some, it, perhaps, is an insult.
Regardless, spirit: yours, mine, ours (in the vast humanity context of things).
The trick and/or the goal, perhaps, of it all? To find our phantom happiness with that.
To live and to let go, in a meaningful way, so that we can say, like Tori Amos sang…
“And if I die today, I'll be the happy phantom…”
May we all be members of this Happy Ghost Choir.
Copyright © 2023 by Sheryle Cruse