Sunday, May 24, 2015
Thursday, May 21, 2015
Saturday, March 21, 2015
I lost her two and a half years ago, and the ache of this has dulled some with time. I think there are days now, that are full enough, that I don't think of her. Not many, but some. And I still miss her so.
My life is intense and challenging right now, and I doubt at times whether I'm strong enough weather the current storm. I would like to lean on her, to sit with her in the midst of all of this. And I can't anymore. But recently, a new acquaintance, who didn't know her and doesn't know me well, looked at me and said, "You know the words she would say to you. Say them to yourself." I don't run around looking for advice, especially from relative strangers, but this kind of in-my-face message is hard to ignore, and probably should be heeded.
The gift and the curse, at times, of having a strong, opinionated (controlling?) mama, is that many of her words will be forever in my head. The work of growth and maturity is to sift through those words, and choose to hold on to those that are gifts and make sense, and to let the others fade. This is not always an easy task.
My family loves analogies, and my mother was no exception. One of her favorite analogies about handling motherhood with grace was that of the airplane oxygen mask. She said to me often, and I'm sure to many other mother friends and family members, that "mothers need to put on their own oxygen masks first, and then attend to their children's.They need to take care of themselves first." They announce this with every plane pre- flight safety demonstration, "If you are travelling with a child or someone who requires assistance, secure your mask first, and then assist the other person."
The question, then, is what is my oxygen mask? What is essential for me, for each of us, to thrive?
I can come up with a pretty good list of what I think I want, so that I can really be okay, and that list includes things like clean floors and laundry washed and put away, and trips to amazing places, and romantic dinners and perfect weather, but boiled down to what's really essential, it becomes relatively simple. These are the things that I need so that I can show up for the rest of my life:
- Knowing My Children are Safe and Cared for. This is so critical for me to be able to relax. In the early days of parenthood, I wanted to keep them right at my side. Now I just need to know that when they aren't with me, they're being taken care of well. Not that all will be perfect, but that they are safe and well.
- Rest. Good quality sleep is ideal, but down time while not handling any specific tasks also goes a long way.
- Alone time. I never thought about whether I was an introvert or an extrovert until I had children. Then I discovered I was an introvert. I LOVE being with people. And I NEED time alone to recharge and process. Often now, when I feel most strained, I recognize that that it is directly related to being full with the day, full with conversation, full with caring for my children, and not having any time to empty.
- Exercise. Last spring, when my life began to implode and, of necessity, my working hours increased, I started walking to the post office daily to pick up the company mail. I began to notice that whether I felt good, or, as was often the case, tired, overwhelmed and blue, that 15 minute walk made me feel vastly better.
- Good Quality Food. Eating regularly is vital for me. And it needs to be decent food. Not fancy. I love to cook, but there's not much time for elaborate meals these days, and the kids don't appreciate them anyway. But good, whole food with plenty of vegetables, adequate protein, and not a lot of grains or sweets really makes a difference in my mood and energy level.
Monday, December 15, 2014
Saturday, October 25, 2014
Today the girls, my sister, my father and I participated in the Cancer Resource Center of the Finger Lake's annual walkathon. We did this in honor of my mama, gone these two years and some months now.
I signed us up only 3 or 4 weeks ago. It's something I've wanted to be involved with for awhile now. The Cancer Resource Center is a wonderful organization that provides all kinds if support for cancer patients and their families.
My life is very full right now, more so maybe than ever before. And I wanted to give something back, do something to remind me that there is so much more in the world than what's going on for me.
This was perfect. We got there a little early, Luci was cranky. I generally like to let Saturday mornings be slow these days, but this was important to me, so off we went anyway.
Heather arrived shortly after we did, my dad just in the nick of time. And we were off, and just as we began walking the sun cut through the clouds and stayed there for the entire walk.
It was sweet, just sweet. I looked around at all of those faces, so many. Some obviously currently fighting the good fight. Some wearing tags listing who they were walking in honor of. Some somber, some smiling. All of us walking (and cheering on the runners, who left before is and were looping back), all of us just together for this same good reason.
And I felt, rather than thought, for the first time in awhile, that we really are all in this together. No matter who we are or where we come from, we all love, and we all lose. It is the nature of life, and if we keep on loving, more and bigger despite our losses, then we win anyway. And we find more richness.
And so today I am replete with love and with peace. It's just all very good.
Thursday, August 28, 2014
Yesterday was the two year anniversary of my mother's passing.
I wanted to go visit her grave site, I don't think I've been since this time last year. But life and work were full, and I could almost hear her saying, in that way of hers, "You have plenty going on, come when you can, this day is no different than any other."
And that was who she was. She didn't set a lot of store in holidays or anniversaries, preferring to live and love well everyday, and I am like her in this way.
A few weeks ago Patrick related to me how a friend of his, awhile back, had described the process of grieving to him, and I liked the description.
His friend said that grief was something like moving to a new town. At first, the whole of the area is new, unfamiliar, bewildering, and overwhelming.
But as the months and then years pass, you become accustomed to the new terrain. The streets are familiar, you know your way around. You make new connections to the place and the people, it begins to feel more like home, more comfortable.
If I relate that to my experience of moving from San Diego to New York, it feels very true. And I would go further and say that while New York doesn't feel like home in the way that San Diego still does to me, I have now have familiarity and comfort, and some roots here now. I'm easy with it.
I feel easier with the loss of mama these days. Not that I like it, far from that. But I have noticed that some of the intensity of losing her has lessened.
And I had this sudden understanding of why we, why I, might choose to hold on to grief, rather than let it pass through me, as I believe it's meant to.
When the grief was fresh and sharp, it was all so intense and tangible, that it almost felt like she was still here, that somehow those feelings were holding her here.
And as this has softened, gradually, I'm recently aware that I'm thinking of her in past tense. As memories. And I half believe that this is how it should be, and half want to really fight that, as if in fighting it I can somehow hold her more here, more present.
But it doesn't really work that way. I do believe, in some fashion, she is still present. I don't really know what that means still, but I'd like to. And I do believe that I'm more likely to understand as more time passes, and it all softens more.