And How We Get There
I keep looking for the gifts in this new world order. Mary Ellen Bratu
Slipping the computer off my lap, I stop writing to water a plant that seems to be languishing in the morning sun, but then I notice the sink is full of dishes, and I stop to rectify this situation with a jug of water still in my hand. Is it because I'm a woman, easily distracted, or is this just how I get shit done?
I stare at the courtyard through the sliding glass door and notice an embroidered dish towel is still hanging on my arm. I'm holding some dirty socks left next to the couch, along with a pair of dusty tennis shoes, and there's a plastic panda bear stuck in my back pocket. The little guy escaped the playroom and was hiding behind my thirsty plant on the hearth.
As I step into the living room to plump the pillows on my way to the laundry room, I'm captured by my reflection in the window. Suddenly, I'm a young girl following my mom around the house, watching her gather abandoned objects as she pauses to water a plant and then dust a side table with the rag she always had tucked into the waistband of her jeans.
I suppose that's where I learned how to be a woman.
Like my mom, I'm a big fan of kindness, optimism, and joy to the detriment of all the other emotions. It's not that I ignore the more complex issues in life—not wholly—but I'll tell you what I know to be true: Most of us are not dealing with trivial matters like pimples, wrinkles, or psoriasis. You can't just dab on some cream and expect them to disappear.
Today, I want to touch on an aspect of life that I tend to avoid.
We're all forced to juggle disappointment, fear, grief, health issues, and unexpected tragedies that challenge our ability to function in this world—especially as we age. Oddly enough, at the same time, we can still be delighted by the pink hydrangeas blooming in the yard, a cool breeze that caresses our skin, or warm blueberry pie with a scoop of vanilla ice cream.
When I pause long enough to look fear in the face, knowing there are things I can't fix or wish away, I discover my inner strength or that smidgeon of hope that keeps me moving forward. Being able to live fully while embracing our pain is not wrong. The ability to hold contrasting emotions, neglecting neither but accepting both, might be our saving grace.
I read this quote by John Green today and he says, "Grief does not change you—it reveals you."
Mom popped into my dream the other night, so that must be why I'm thinking of her. She was standing in the middle of nowhere, smiling at me. I realized in my dream that she was dead, so I ran up to her, threw my arms around her, and whispered in her ear, "I've missed you." She responded to my hug, and all I can say is it felt so good to feel my mom's arms wrapped around my waist, even if it was a dream.
I still write her long letters, filling her in on my hopes, dreams, grievances, and fears. She never writes back, but regardless, I continue to tell her about my ongoing battle with psoriasis, the itchy scabs, and permanent scars. I inherited this condition from my dad. Don't you just love those legacies that keep on giving? But I didn't want to end on a negative note, so I told her how fabulous my spotted legs looked after we biked across Iowa. I imagine her smiling at my ridiculous narrative. It seems so odd to me to be in the world without her.
It's as if she left in the middle of our story.
So, I've had to figure out who I am without her.
As August Wilson says, you must open your eyes and ears for clues. There is no compass—or if there is, it's elusive. I will never be able to watch her age, ask how she got her African violets to bloom, or learn how to grow old gracefully with a handly rag tucked in the waistband of my jeans.
I'll just have to wing it.
I don't think we move on after loss—we move with it because it shifts, hides, intensifies (especially when I'm in the shower), and continues to reveal itself as I move through this life without the person who brought me into it. Sometimes, it overwhelms me, but there are days when grief can feel as easy to hold as a kitten.
What has it been? Seven years.
Charles Swartz says, "It is not the things we get, but the hearts we touch that will measure our success in life." We have the capacity, if you will, for grief because we dared to love so deeply and profoundly.
Love is the prerequisite.
Nancy and I talk about these things all the time, questioning where we'll eventually go and what it will be like on the other side. If our purpose here is to love, what will our purpose be in heaven? It's all so mysterious, and I believe that is by design.
Like the military, we're on a need-to-know basis; until then, we can only imagine.
So, how do we acknowledge the sacredness of life when everything is suddenly reordered?
I watch my friends, amid their suffering, continue to support, witness, invite, connect, believe, heal, love, serve, encourage, pray, create, forgive, play, paint, garden, cook, share, listen, initiate, and find the courage to love each other even when it feels as if the sky is falling.
You know who you are, and I am in awe of you.
I sit back down with my computer in my lap, desperately wanting to finish her story in the middle of mine. I glance around the house I have lived in for over 34 years, taking in the entirety of my life with a quick sweep of the room. I think I experience just about everything through the lens of my mother's soft blue eyes, and for that, I am grateful.
I don't want to die with any regrets. I want to be all used up, full of gratitude, rejoicing in the life I have been given. I am still here, and from my narrow perspective of what being alive actually means, I'm trying to figure it all out. Most of the time, I'm utterly perplexed because it's complicated, heartbreaking, and delightful. I stick a dish towel into the waistband of my jeans, and today, I am beginning to appreciate the depth and breadth of my mortality.
Grow Damn It! Do you know someone who needs a copy? Well, for goodness' sake, send them one. Amazon even delivers.
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