Until I was Numb

This is a difficult time of year.  Each of my most painful losses has happened in late November and early December.   Although there are years between each of them,  the anniversary dates of their passings are within weeks of each other.

The passing of time has not lessened my grief.   But time has kindly made it possible for the pain to burrow and hide and at times rest.

I've written several times about one of my biggest grief hurts, the feeling that I missed out on large chunks of Joe's life.  Mainly, the secretive teen years and the period of time when he left to live on his own.

I'm well aware of the normalcy of a child's need to explore just beyond the reach of his mother's watchful eye.

I've reflected that it clearly happened with the turn of my head.

One moment I held a cuddly toddler on my lap and seemingly the next moment, he or she wriggled to be free, beyond the reach of my protective arms.

I have revealed before,  that I believe a combination of circumstances, along with our mutually quiet and reserved personalities led to a period of a separation of sorts between Joe and me.  Perhaps it was perceived on my part, but probably not.

In other posts, I've talked about how Joe and I were just starting to get re-acquainted shortly before and most definitely after, we found out about his illness.  We were beginning to relate and communicate as one adult to another and especially as one parent to another.

I've mentioned that the grief, although mostly sadness,  insinuates itself in other ways.  I've said how it causes me to be more conscious and reflective.

I 've shared how a glance at a photo will trigger an agonizing loop of over and over again "why" questions in my mind.

I've expressed my anger at the unfairness of it all.

I started writing this particular piece a couple of weeks ago, but I keep coming back to the draft, re-reading several times and then I always get stuck right here:

 "I've expressed my anger at the unfairness of it all."

That's where my heart and mind shuts down.  For there is nothing more to be said, right?

It is unfair.

I can't seem to get beyond that.
But, I feel as though my story wants to lead me down a new enlightened path.
Niggling, fleeting thoughts whisper to me but disappear before I can grab a hold of them.

Frustrated, I wind up saving the draft and flipping down the top of the laptop.

As I meander on, I think about my mom, who passed away nearly six years ago.
I miss her.  I miss the way we shared each other's lives.   I miss how much she cared for me like no other person could.
I found out what that meant after I became a mom.

My daughter and I speak on the phone at least once a week.
This is an example of how our phone conversation always starts out:

Me or her depending on who calls who:

"What's going on?"

That little question will lead to an hour or so of catching up.

I find out how her job is going. I savor the latest, cutest thing my two-year-old grandson said today. I'm interested in how my grand-daughter is making out in her new middle school.  I want to know about my grandson's struggles and successes in second grade.  I want to hear about my son-in-law's food shopping trips, always with a kid in the cart, to give mom a break.  I admire their devotion to family time.

After I get off the  phone, Ross will ask, "So what's going on with the family?"
I'll say, "Nothing much."
Chuckling, Ross will say,  "Nothing much?  You were on the phone for over an hour."

It makes me think about the many hours I spent speaking to my mom on the phone.

My youngest son and I don't speak very often. That makes me sad.   It's not due to any type of estrangement.  I think it's just a mother-son thing.  Just, I guess as it once was with his brother.

This morning I walked around the pond under a brilliant, cloudless, blue sky.  I looked up and noticed that even the moon decided to hang out.  It was invigoratingly chilly and I moved at a brisk pace, swinging my arms as I pushed my face into the breeze until I was numb.

How To Be Idle

In a recent post on a blog in my reading list,  "Thoughts From A Bag Lady in Waiting", Linda Myers (the blog's author) refers to a poem by Mary Oliver called "The Summer Day".
The last two lines of the poem were the prompt for a writing group that Linda participated in.

       "Tell me, what is it you plan to do 
       with your one wild and precious life?"

In the poem, Mary Oliver paints a vivid image of a lazy summer day.  As she goes on to describe the day, she completely immerses herself in, not only the whole of the experience but even more so in the minutest of details.

I have little (okay, practically no) experience with poetry.  But, this poem touched me deeply.

I have had significant, heartbreaking losses in the last few years.        

However, for me the question about what I plan to do with my one precious life is not what grabbed me.  Nor was the reminder of how short life is.

"Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?"

Her message that it's okay to take the time to lay in the grass and do nothing but wonder,

         "...how to be idle and blessed"

followed by the question, "Tell me what else should I have done?" is what clutched at my soul.

Let me explain.  I don't know if it is specific to my generation, cultural background, gender or retirement, but I have difficulty doing nothing.   For after all there is always work that has to be done, right?
Something must be accomplished every day, no?
What if unexpected guests showed up at my door?  How embarrassing would it be if the house was not in order?

I have started to keep an online journal.  Or I should say, once again, I am attempting to keep an online journal.  I must point out that the security options on my journal blog are set to private.  There is absolutely no way anyone would be able to read or even find this blog.

But, as I read back through the entries, of my most private journal, I see it is merely a list of what I have done that day.  Funny, I apparently have to prove even to myself that I and my life are still worthwhile.
For after all on Tuesday:

"I started going through my closet and drawers to put away some of my summer clothes and to switch over to winter stuff.
I put together a give-a-way box."

There is no mention of the Blue Jay perched on the very tip top branch of the pine I stopped to watch on my walk, or not a hint of the elephant cloud I spied.

So, today when I am out for my walk, instead of checking my FitBit every few minutes to see if I am anywhere near my 10,000 steps, maybe I will stop and sit on the bench by the pond and wonder.


  "Thursday, October 15, 2015

Today, Jane called.  I invited her over.  And instead of rushing around to make the bed and wash the dishes in the sink before she arrived, I waited for her in the sunroom watching the pine branches sway.







 

A Story I Am Compelled to Tell

Thoughts are playful in the dark wee hours.   They dart in and flirt with me.  They bob and weave,  teasing me with a mere glimpse as they dare me to snatch one of them.
In the very early of this day, I captured one.  I held it close so that it could not escape.  I closed my eyes, coaxing my muse to lead the way, promising I would follow without care.

I saw the girl in faded denim overalls and pink ruffled blouse.   She was the little one with large brown eyes and long dark curls.  I watched her playing in between the hanging wet laundry.   She would giggle, her arm raised,  as she jumped up to try to reach the top of the fluttering, brilliant, Clorox-white bed sheets.  
The girl spotted the woman watching from the window.  The woman shook her head back and forth, wagged her finger and mouthed the words, "No, No!"
She smiled and waved to her mother.   
The girl sat down in the tall grass, closed her eyes and lifted her face up to feel the warmth of the summer sun. 
She desperately wanted to go down by the woods.  She had stood at the edge many times.  She peered in, squinting to see what was beyond the darkness. She breathed in the smell of dank moss.  She was curious about the slithering, chirping, scurrying, tapping and caw-cawing creature noises from within.   
But, her mother warned her,  "Don't ever go into those woods!"  
She turned towards her house.  Her mother was no longer watching.   She would only be gone for a little while. 

I woke up this morning wanting to tell you all about it.   Urge shook my shoulder roughly, and it's gravelly voice snarled "get up, get up!"  Compulsion yanked on my arm until I nearly fell out of bed.  My fingers curled in and out, uncontrollably, until with a satisfied sigh, they hovered over asdf and jkl;.