Smoke Gets in Your Eyes: book review and thoughts about death

Two summers ago, I went to my friend Sheila's funeral and burial. Since Sheila had been cremated, there was no casket. Instead, most of her ashes were concealed in an urn that was placed inside the burial vault while the mourners looked on.

It was sort of shocking to me to watch her urn being put in the ground in front of me. In my experience, the burial of the remains was always performed behind the scenes, after the dedicatory prayer, and out of the sight of loved ones. I thought a lot about this event, and the more I thought about it, the more I appreciated it. Sheila's young daughters, who would certainly come to visit in the future, would know exactly what was underneath the beautiful headstone that marked Sheila's remains. They weren't preserved to look "natural" or "lifelike." They were simply non-scary, non-threatening ashes, remains of a lovely life cut too short. They would never wonder if she still looked the same as when the casket lid was shut (as I often do when I visit my dad's grave site.)

The shock became sort of comforting as I thought about it. The obviousness of the events took wonder about a dead body below the ground out of the equation. No dead body preserved with chemicals in a cement vault in a metallic casket, all for the mourner's comfort and the cemetery's landscaping convenience, paid for at a premium price, with the feeling that anything less than the best makes you cheap. (Sidenote: I was called "cheap" in conversation just this week about this topic. The exact words were "you are too cheap to be embalmed." Um, okay. I guess I am. Because yes, I not only don't like the thought of my dead body being filled with chemicals, I also don't like my loved ones paying a large sum for it. I'll own that, but not in the way it was said.)

Now, I'm not really 100% sold on cremation. But I also don't oppose it in quite the way I did when I was younger. The culture I live in seems to believe in the traditional funeral establishment. But I don't count myself as one of the believers. Sheila's funeral was simply another step in my own (morbid) journey of how I've come to think about my own death (a long, long time in the future, thankyouverymuch.) I decided years ago to not be embalmed. I've also decided to have a green burial (more on this later in the post.) I don't judge others for their desires for their own burial, but those are my current plans for that future event.

Which brings me to the book I've been reading: Smoke Gets in Your Eyes & other lessons from the Crematory, by Caitlin Doughty.  It is possibly one of the best autobiographical memoirs I have ever read. Told in first person, Caitlin tells of how she became obsessed and morbidly afraid of death as a child, which led to her first job in a funeral home, pushing the big red button on the crematorium for people from all walks of life.  She also has a blog and a website, www.orderofthegooddeath.com

I cannot say enough good things about this book. Caitlin talks very openly about our society's lack of death rituals, especially as most people become increasingly less involved in religion. Most of us are afraid of dead bodies, convinced that they will give us diseases, that we don't have any rights to the deceased's body after death, that we cannot transport them on our own or keep them longer than a few moments after they have passed from life to death. Our society likes to have death be behind closed doors. We are are secluded from death because it reminds us that we will die, and we don't like to be reminded.

I loved this book. I loved how she tackled the societal beliefs and norms that we have about death. Reading about the lack of regard many people have for their dead made me sad that I didn't participate in more of my own father's burial. I wish I hadn't let fear keep me from helping to dress him. I know I am a daughter, and that it would be weird to dress my father. But I wish I had. Even just his outer clothing. What I dislike about my lack of involvement is that it came from fear. Fear of my dad's scary dead body. I know that my sister participated in the dressing of one of her close relatives, and that she felt a great amount of peace from it. I regret not doing something similar for my dad. I won't let that fear impede me in the future.

If I thought I had strong beliefs about what I wanted to happen to my own body after death before reading it, they are even stronger now. Even though it sounds weird and new-agey, I think a home funeral would be very special to have or attend for a loved one. When I die, I don't want my family to be afraid of my body. (Nor do want them to keep it in the back bedroom as it waits for resurrection.) I want some sort of middle ground type of event to mark my passing. This passage perfectly describes my feelings for my body:

The way to break the cycle and avoid embalming, the casket, the heavy vault, is something called green, or natural, burial. It is only available in certain cemeteries, but its popularity is growing as society continues to demand it....The body goes straight into the ground, in a simple biodegradable shroud, with a rock to mark the location. It zips merrily through decomposition, shooting its atoms back into the universe to create new life. Not only is natural burial by far the most ecologically sound way to perish, it doubles down on the fear of fragmentation and loss of control. Making the choice to be naturally buried says "Not only am I aware that I'm a helpless, fragmented mass of organic matter, I celebrate it. Vive la decay!"

And another good sentence or two:

I understood I had been given my atoms, the ones that made up my heart and toenails and kidneys and brain, on a kind of universal loan program. The time would come when I would have to give the atoms back, and I didn't want to attempt to hold on to them through the chemical preservation of my future corpse.

I know, I know. It's morbid. But it's inevitable, and I don't want to pretend my own death (or the death of my loved ones, as much as I don't want it) won't happen (in a really, really long time.) I don't want to pretend I will always be young. I want to embrace the process of life, that leads, you know, to aging and eventual decomposition. It will happen whether I fear it or not. It feels brave. It feels empowered.

Check out Caitlyn's website. Read her book. It's disturbing, but I think we need to be a little disturbed. I think we need reminders of our mortality. We need to make decisions about our own deaths.

Gratitude, Day 3

In August, a Bikram yoga studio opened up really close to me. It was a dream come true for me; I love Bikram, but I couldn't mange the 15+ mile drive to the closest studio, or the drop-in rate very regularly. Having a place to practice that is only 4 miles away made me super happy. I've been going weekly ever since, with the exception of the times when my kids are out of school.

Being able to practice regularly has opened my eyes a lot to this style of yoga. I found out that as much as I love the class, I equally hate and despise parts of it. My feet ache in almost every posture. I hate how wobbly and inflexible I am on my left side. I dread going into Standing Bow Pulling, Standing Head to Knee, and Standing Separate Leg to Knee poses. This dread is only surpassed by my ultimate hatred for Camel Pose, which simultaneously makes me want to weep, and run from the hot room, screaming.

But mostly I love it. I love learning little tricks to making the poses easier. I love how I'm overcoming some of my balance issues, and how I'm getting more flexible.

I also love the owner and the tone that she sets for the studio. The Salt Lake studio I had practiced at was really intimidating. Everyone was so granola-y, with their Subarus in the parking lot and fancy yoga mats and towels and row upon row of perfect pose practitioners. I didn't feel welcome there; being there brought out my competitive side, and I didn't like that. Who tries to compete in yoga, after all. Ronda, the owner of the studio here, is really kind and real. It filters down from her to make it a very nice place.

One of the poses I've really been practicing at is Standing Separate Leg Stretching Pose. Basically, you are standing with your feet 3-4 feet apart. You grab your heels from the outside and pull, lengthening the backs of the legs as well as down the torso. The object is to touch the top of your head to the towel. I've touched my forehead in class one time before this week, but I didn't really do it the right way; my stance was too wide, and I wasn't lengthening from the right places.

But on Friday, I did it. I was really close on the first time through the pose. Since every pose is done twice, I thought I might be able to do it the second time around, and I was right. The stars aligned, and for a brief moment right before the pose ended, my forehead touched the towel.

The rest of the class felt like floating. I didn't mind any of the other poses I usually hate. I didn't want to run screaming out of the heat into the cool reception room. And while I don't know that I could do it every time, that time, I succeeded in a small thing. A small thing that really means nothing in the large context of my life, but it made me happy.

I've been thinking about my post about the envy I felt this spring during my first time back to Bikram. It was so unfair of me to be so envious. I made a realization of sorts during class on Friday. There was a group of girls who were having their first class. I watched them here and there and listened to the instructor help them with the poses. I wasn't really comparing myself to them (although I felt bad for one girl, who had worn some mascara and eyeliner and it ended up melting all over; nothing is safe from the sweat during hot yoga), but I recognized their inexperience and wondered how they would react to the class.

After the class, they were all in the locker room while I was getting dressed. They were talking and laughing about the class, enjoying the bewilderment of doing something new. And then they started talking about running, and how they were going to run 13 miles the next day for their long run (they were training for the Arizona Marathon in February.) Envy set in. Envy I haven't felt before in that studio, but that I brought to myself when I realized that even though it was their first class in Bikram, and that they probably didn't love it, they would be running a lot farther than I am running these days, and I imagined that they were all a lot faster than me, and I instantly felt crappy about myself. Despite my happy moment of touching my forehead to the towel. I started comparing myself to them, and it took my happy place away.

Why do I do that to myself?

I realize set myself up to want things and abilities that I haven't earned. I want to be the best writer, the best blogger, the best runner, the best yogi, the best photographer, the best reader, the best mom, the best cook, the best everything. Not because I want to be better than others, but I just don't want to be less than them. Is that the same thing? I don't know. I think that being competitive is part of my nature, but that it doesn't really serve me well. It sets me up for feeling things like envy that isn't really fair to either me or the other person.

So how am I to be grateful in this? I guess I want to stop putting myself down. I want to stop setting myself up to be the person that I pity. I want just be glad I touched the towel and not berate myself for not being able to run 13 miles the next day. I want to be grateful for what I can do, even if it isn't the best. Even if it's just one pose, for one day.  I want to stop doing the mental and emotional mathematics of who is better or worse or equal to me.

Knowing that I can try to learn to be that person, gives me something to be grateful for.

Gratitude, Day 2

Today was my youngest niece's wedding. It was a beautiful day, and I was so glad to be able to be there.

I didn't take any pictures. Well, that is a lie: I did take one selfie before the ceremony. But other than that, nada. When I was the photographer at the wedding this summer, I was annoyed at all the others taking pictures. I had also read a post about letting the photographer do his/her job by staying out of the way. So I kept my phone and camera in my lap and enjoyed the ceremony and dinner afterward, making mental pictures and trying to make memories.

(Side note: I was so nervous for the photographer during the ceremony. Gah! So many moments to try and capture. Moments that don't come again, that don't have a do-over. I'm sure she did a great job, but I was having some serious anxiety on her part.)

After the ceremony, I sat with my family and chatted. There wasn't any one moment that was significant. I simply enjoyed myself. I loved seeing all of my family together. Sure there were some tense moments. But there were others that made me laugh, like when we put together a group photo of my boys, Amy's boys, and our husbands with the bride and had them make the duck face. Or when everyone was teasing Shane about his hair (he's been growing it out all summer and it looks smoking hot. Everyone had an opinion about it.), and my two oldest nieces laughed about a long ago memory of Shane's hair that they love to tease him about.

My mom's wedding dress and photo were on display. I looked at what a beautiful woman she was, and still is. I liked looking at her hands in the picture: the same hands I've watched sew nightgowns and dresses for dances and costumes and quilts, make countless yummy dinners and desserts, and hold my little girl hands back before I was too cool to hold my mom's hand anymore. I love her. My grandma's cedar chest was there, too. Right before we left, my mom gave me a baby picture of me that she had found in the chest. My grandma had written "Becky Bue In Hospital" on the back. It made it feel like my grandma was right there (which I know she was.)

It was fun to talk with so many of my nieces and nephews. I don't see them as often as I'd like, but when I do, I feel so proud of who they are. They are moms, dads, students, basketball players, workers, artists, soccer players, video game aficionados, runners, readers, dancers, and more. So many talents and personalities.

I hugged my sisters. I love them. I don't want to know what life is like without them.

I love my family. I love being with them and being a part of them. I'm so grateful for the incredible people that they are. We get annoyed at each other and then we forgive. We aren't perfect. But they are mine and I wouldn't trade them for anything.

Gratitude, day 1

I have lived, very happily I might add, under the radar of big callings at church for 15 years. Sure, I've been a librarian, spent one year in primary, taught gospel doctrine (probably my favorite calling ever; it is so fun to get into nerdy gospel discussions!), and a few others. But I had never been in anything resembling a presidency. I had friends in high places, it seems.

But all of that came to a halt a few months ago. My ward split, and a complete stranger put my name in as secretary for the Young Women group. Gulp. I panicked hard when I was asked; how would I manage meetings, how would I manage the weekly activities, what would my family do while I was away, how would my husband react? I've lived for so long with a sure-fire, presidency-avoiding reason all my married life: my husband isn't a member, so how could I be expected to do all of that?

I found out how. After a long call with the complete stranger who was the YW president, I decided to give it a try. In the back of my mind, there were so many doubts about my own abilities. What would I know about young girls? How am I supposed to be an example to these girls, when I stopped going to my own young women class at 15, never setting foot in my laurel's class? I went so far off of the path for so many years, would I be a good person to influence the daughters of so many more (righteous, LDS, firm in the gospel, knowledgeable, etc..) people in my ward?

I feel like I am the back-door leader. The one who watches these amazing girls and their fierce personalities, and wonders which of them will stray. I wonder what I can say to them that no leader said to me, back when I still listened. How can I teach them that if or when they stray, they can come back? That they don't have to turn their hearts against God because of the things they have done? That He still loves them and doesn't want them to throw away their relationship with Him because of the paths they took, or the sins they committed, or the alcohol they drank. That they don't have to be angry with him that they don't fit the mold that people want them to fill; that they have a mold that He has given them and they can let Him help them to make it fit.

It sounds like the wrong approach. But it feels right, for me. I can't pretend to be anything other than me. I don't want to. I want them to know that sometimes, people have to step off the path to know what they really believe. I had to live my life for a few years without the Spirit to know that I wanted it. I'm not encouraging them to stray. I just think it's a possibility. I want every one of those girls in my ward to know that I would love them without judgement, no matter what or how or where their lives take them. They would know that if they got into trouble and needed a ride home, I would come and get them. That they could run into me in Target in 10 years and know I would be happy to see them, regardless of what path they were on. (Maybe this is the hope of every leader. What I'm really trying to say that I can imagine if my leaders had seen me at my worst, they would have just felt disappointed in me. I would have avoided them at all costs. I wouldn't want any of these girls to feel or do that.)

A few nights ago, I gave four of them a ride home. It was completely normal, something I do for my sons and his friends all the time. But it felt so...special. I could give these amazing, giggly, girls a ride. I enjoyed it so much. It's funny to see how different teenage girls are from teenage boys.

The funny thing is that I knew this calling was coming for a while. I expected to get something in Young Women when I got my gospel doctrine calling. It's working out (I really hope I'm not jinxing myself by saying that!) It's true I am the old lady of the group (everyone else is in their late twenties, except for the president who is 30. Gah.) But I can be the old lady, I guess. 
 
The amazing part in all of this, one of the parts that I'm most grateful for, has been the feeling of...insulation I've had. I can't describe it better than that. I'm able to go to the meetings and activities and feel just fine with what I'm able to do, on all fronts. If I go, I can go and not feel guilty. If I can't go, I can not go and not feel guilty. It's such a great feeling, and I'm scared to even admit I have it in case it goes away. But it lets me do what I need to do and not feel conflicted. I didn't know that feeling could exist; I never would have known to ask for it, nor would I have expected to feel it. It's a much-needed reminder that I'm getting help to be able to do what I need to do.

Book Review: Beautiful Ruins

Beautiful Ruins by Jess Walter was my "break back into books that have happiness and light" read after the trauma of GoT. I think what drew me to it was the Italian connection (as I'm feeling a bit nostalgic for last year's Italy trip.)

I was not disappointed. The book had so many references to places, not just Italy, that I could relate to. One scene took me back to the Spanish Steps and the Trinita Dei Monti, standing at the top in front of the church with my sister, watching the sun set over Rome, the steps full of tourists and artists and moony-eyed couples. Later on, I was back at the train station in Florence, and on the banks of the Arno. The scenes on the Amalfi coast made me frustrated; Amy and I had grand plans to visit a resort town only 1 hour from Rome on our first day in Italy. These plans were foiled by our early arrival at our hotel, which wasn't ready for us or our luggage. I even got excited over a mention of Termini. Ah, Italy. There was also a moment set in the Spokane airport that made me smile; the description of its squeaky-cleanness, its tiny terminals and welcome sign to the "inland Northwest." Ah, Spokane, I love you as well.

I can't not quote one of my favorite passages. It's one from the character Dee Moray, the doomed actress who almost made it, was almost in a movie with Richard Burton and Elizabeth Taylor, who almost ruined the movie Cleopatra with her brief affair and resulting pregnancy with none other than Richard Burton himself. Her only keepsake from what could have been (beside her son, of course) was a still photograph of herself and Elizabeth Taylor, laughing on set.

By then, Debra could almost wonder if the whole thing - Pasquale, the fishermen, the paintings in the bunker, the little village on the cliffs - hadn't been some trick of the mind, another of her fantasies, a scene from some movie she had watched.

Isn't it always like that? Remembering the scenes in your life - the trips, the hard times, the pregnancies, the friendships, the rainstorms in Italian cities - and wondering if they really happened to you.

It is hard to go anywhere in Italy without seeing ruins. I almost always was amazed by the beauty of the ruins; they were old, they were remnants and reminders from a long ago time. But how would the original inhabitants see the same ruins? Would they be inspired? Probably not. They would just look at what was left, remembering what had been and be sad. Pretty much how I would feel to see the remains of my home in some distant future.

Without giving away too much, I think that Beautiful Ruins was a long metaphor.  We all sort of live amongst the ruins of our lives: secrets, guilt, events that we regret or know we could have handled better, memories of people that make us wonder what would have happened if ____.  How we make up stories for people that we don't know, and sometimes we get it right, and other times, we couldn't be farther from the true events. I liked how it wrapped up all the loose ends in a not too tidy way. I like that it showed that sometimes, it's better to just let ruins be and not disturb them, while other times, we should pursue those loose ends that make us wonder. How we can learn from others mistakes to remedy our own lives.

I truly enjoyed this beautiful book and would recommend it.

And now, I need to put the Cinque Terre on my list of must-visit places.

Summer 2014 Images

On Friday, Amy posted this about End of Summer images. I wanted to comment and tell her how much I loved her images, and share some moments of my own. But then I realized had an entire post of moments that I don't want to forget from Summer 2014.

Dinner with Shane. One night, the kids wanted to stay in with takeout from Five Guys, while Shane and I were more interested in our favorite Mexican restaurant. So we went on a date, just the two of us. It was a simple enough moment: sitting on the bench outside the restaurant, chatting and holding hands. Watching a group of girls who were all wearing their purple softball team uniforms talking and laughing and team-ing together. The view of the mountains, which were that shade of summer green that happens just before they start to turn. Later, the taste of a giant cold Coke and warmed refried beans with chips and salsa (the delicious detail that sets this restaurant apart from others.)

Walking with Ben. Thomas and Shane were running a four-mile training run for Thomas's black-belt physical test. Ben walked with me. The kid talked the whole time: wondering if the rock next to the trail was a meteor; why the sky was darker blue above us and lighter blue lower on the horizon; trying to find a rock of just the perfect size next to the trail that could be a meteor that wouldn't cause a giant crater, but would still put a dent in the trail. I loved his ceaseless chatter, the browning grasses next to the trail, the reddening trees on the mountains to the west, as he rode his scooter along the trail "that was only for walking, not for cartwheeling" he had earlier declared after I demonstrated a cartwheel.

Eating with Thomas. One evening, it ended up that it was only me and Thomas home for dinner, a very, very rare occurrence in our house. Shane was at a late meeting at work, and Ben had gone to the trampoline park with the neighbor kid's family. Not wanting to make dinner, I picked up Thomas from karate and declared it was date night. We went to Carl's Junior together (I'm a sucker for CJ!). We got burgers and fries and cokes and laughed through dinner. He's grown up so much this summer; he's now within an inch of my height, has bigger hands, and bigger feet than me. He's also matured so much, thanks to working at the library for volunteer hours, mowing lawns for his grandma and neighbors, and running with his dad. It was a great summer of growth for him.

Running in San Diego with my foursome. This is a family snapshot: Shane and Thomas ahead of me. We are in the cross walk at the intersection of Mission Bay Boulevard and San Rafael street, between the two bodies of water: the Pacific beach and Mission Bay, just down from our favorite San Diego hotel. Ben is riding his scooter next to me, and I am running. Usually runs in San Diego are solitary, but Thomas had a goal of running 4 miles without stopping before he started school, and so we did it all together on vacation.

Sitting in my sister's pool. For my mom's birthday, we had a family party at my sister's pool. I rarely swim, but on that day, I put on my suit and sat on the steps of the pool with my mom, sister Suzette, and great-niece Josie while she learned to not be afraid of the water. At some point, I ended up stealing my mom's straw hat right off of her head, which I wore for the rest of the party. Later, Amy and my niece Lyndsay came and sat with me. Visiting and watching the kids scream and play and swim while we visited made me happy.

Waiting for Wicked with Sisters Squared. The people on our Italy trip took to taking me and my mom and sisters Sisters Squared. It sort of stuck. In August, we got tickets to Wicked together. Looking down at the curtain at Capital Theater as we took selfies, talked about books we were reading, planned where we would eat dinner later (Desert Edge), and shared in the excitement of being together again as Sisters Squared is an image I don't want to forget.

Swearing with Amy. The end of Ragnar was a disaster. Amy and I sort of hobbled across the finish line, both of us near tears, swearing like sailors as the rest of our team ran ahead. I loved that I could tell my sister in just a few words what I was feeling, and that I didn't have to censor myself, but she would understand and swear along with me while declaring her own frustrations.

Talking Mom about laundry. A few weeks ago I had a little conversation on the phone with my mom that turned somehow to laundry. She told me a little story about folding laudry with my grandma when my two older sisters were tiny. My mom doesn't tell stories about that time very often, and I loved that it just came up so naturally.

Standing on the Pier at Pacific Ocean. I did get to go on one solo run during our time in San Diego. We stayed at a different hotel than we usually do; we were just down the beach a few miles, but it felt so different. I ended up on the sand, instead of the boardwalk where I normally run. I ran all the way to the end of Crystal Pier, where I stopped running, turned on I Wanna Get Better  by Bleachers (I didn't know I was lonely til I saw your face...) and looked out at the ocean. I love the way running on the beach smells. It's fishy and salty and sweaty, and it clears out my soul in a way that no other running anywhere can.

Thanks, Amy for your beautiful and inspiring post.(I enjoyed that moment at Ragnar, too. I always love driving out of Kamas on Saturday morning. It's one of my favorite parts of Ragnar.)

What are your summer images?

Game of Thrones: All that I don't want to forget

It has been a long summer. I started watching Game of Thrones (I hope we can still be friends!) in May or so, and loved the shows. But I had so many questions about who all the characters were, and what their history was, and what was really happening in the story. Plus, after I read Amy's review, I was intrigued. So, on July 7th, I started reading the books.

Holy cow. Never have I felt so....detached from a story that I am seriously interested in. George RR Martin makes no qualms about killing off characters - major, minor, meh, doesn't matter. I think it's a sort of fatalistic/realistic view of things: sometimes the hero who believes in honor just doesn't live. It happens that way in real life, right? But I'm not used to it in books.

Now, five books, more than 3,000 pages later, I'm finally finished. It was a race to the end; I needed to finish them and move on to something else (which makes me sound like I hate them; I don't, I just couldn't keep reading 900+ page books each month. My family was tired of seeing my nose in another damn book, I tell you.) One thing I know for 100% is this: I can't go back and re-read them in preparation for the 6th and 7th books, which have yet to have release dates. So, I'm giving myself a cheat sheet. Below is the fate (by the end of the 4th/5th book, as some characters finished their story in book 4. A Feast for Crows and Dance with Dragons cover the same time period; half of the characters are in FfC, the other half are in DwD, and then a few creep in at the end to of DwD to make the story flow.)

If you are a fan of the series and don't want to be spoiled, don't keep reading. The books do not follow the TV series, but certain characters endure, so what I know from the books and what you know from the show may be different. I am only in season 2 of the TV series, and I know that things are different on the show.

I cannot promise that what I write regarding any one character will:

a- make sense
b- be in complete sentences
c- be grammatically correct.

Feel free to comment. I plan on updating this post regularly, until I finish with as many characters as I deem necessary.

If you are a fan of GOT, let me know. After all, winter is coming. And, you have to know your name, even if, like Jon Snow, you know nothing.

Cersei: She is seriously one of the most evil characters in all of literature. She has no sense of anything outside of herself. Cersei is awaiting trial for treason because she conspired with the Kettleback to bring down Margaery. She sent a letter to Jamie asking him to come to her defense, but Jamie ignored it and threw it in the fire. She confessed her sins, did a walk of shame naked through the streets of Kings Landing only to fall into the arms of a rescuer who is 8 feet tall (the Mountain? but wasn't his head sent to Dorne? He was experimented on with poison in Qyburn's dungeons.

Kevan Lannister - was serving as Hand for Tommen, was killed by the eunoch because he didn't believe the stories of Aegon being still alive. Died the same way as Tywin, with a cross bow to the gut.

Margaery - on house arrest.  Her father was able to release her from the Septon's dungeons but she will be tried for her supposed treasons agains Tommen as well. She asked for a potion that is usually used as an abortifacent (moon tea) from Pycell, and Cersei found out. Cersei was using Kettleback to say that he and other men, including a fool/singer that Cersei tortured into a confession, had been allegedly sleeping with Margaery behind Tommen's back (but I don't believe it.). Margaery's father Mace Tyrell is in Kings Landing. Her brother may be dead, after the injury he took during his battle at Dragonstone. Were she & Loras like Cersei & Jamie? I wonder.

Jamie - went off into the wild after his adventure getting back to Kings Landing with Brienne of Tarth. Solved the seige at Riverrun, giving the castle to his uncle Frey (who is also married to his favorite aunt, a Lannister, sister to his father and Kevan.) Was angry at Tyrion's allegations (which are mostly true) about Cersei sleeping with the Kettlebacks, and Lancel. Received a letter from Cersei asking him to come back to King's Landing, which he burned. Solved another seige dispute, then headed back to Kings Landing. Took a hostage, a young boy. Ran into Brienne, who told him she had a Stark girl who was being threatened by the Hound. Went with Brienne, who was believed dead (hung by the returned Catelyn Stark, who gave Brienne the choice between hanging and killing Jamie; Brienne must have chose life.) But I don't think Jamie is dead, even though he hasn't been heard from since he went off with Brienne.

Tyrion - has now signed on with the Second Son's, a company of sellswords outside the walls of Mereen. He was sold as a slave after being captured at sea by a slaver ship, along with Penny the dwarf and Jorah Mormont. He caught site of Dany during his performance in the slave pits, as well as Barristan, the old knight from King's Landing. Tyrion is wishing he had stayed with Aegon and Jon Griffin. Ben Plumb, who betrayed Dany by going over to the Yunkai, is in the Second Son's company and knows who Tyrion is. He gets Tyrion to agree to pay a ransom to Ben Plumb for not turning over Tyrion's head (or any other body parts!) to Cersei.Is still technically married to Sansa. Narrowly avoided greyscale, and still hopes to find Tysha, his first wife who he was told was a prostitute, which was a lie told him by Jamie and Tywin (which is why Tyrion killed Tywin in the first place.)