A Precious Reward

Setting the table for four on Christmas Day, I decided to use my parent's dishes, mine now since they are gone. Growing up, my family ate every Thanksgiving and Christmas dinner on these "good" dishes.

I got four plates down and started setting the table.  Holding that sweet 1960s plate, I was transported back, back to the sounds of the table, smells, my father's voice, the bowls including that canned cranberry, mother's sweet tea, back through a tunnel of time to my mother's house. When I realized I was in 2012 preparing a meal alone, I felt a deep sense of gratitude for those memories, for that childhood, for this day.

It occurred to me what progress that way. A corner turned.

It was a moment of reward for the last year and a half processing the fact that I have no family of origin. A few cousins I rarely hear from. A nephew, a relationship young for him to know me long. Processing that no one knows me before the age of 14. Feeling alone. Feeling pitiful. But on Christmas day 2012, I felt grateful for what I had. And still have, those precious times I can float back to...

Lake Alone Four

Spencer was restless all night. He never stays up. He loves going to bed. He had
a fresh blanket and everything. But instead something was harassing him in the
dark. He barked though the night. So unlike him. I thought it must be a deer or
raccoon.

By mid morning of day three he had treed the offensive beast, having never seen
it myself I feel it must have been a feral cat. He strutted around satisfied that
he had shown the beast who was boss. That's right Spencer, you can enjoy your
bed tonight...

It was windy, Oklahoma again. I chose to bead and watch another movie on the
iPad. Once. Oh so good. So very good. Watch it.

Now I sit in my beloved rocker, having some water and recounting here by
writing. It's 11:15 and I have to leave the cabin by 2:30.

These indulgent quiet days have brought my mother close to me.

I keep seeing
images of her and hearing her voice.

It's difficult to live without her. Such an interesting time in my life as my
own daughter makes her way. It is necessary for her to stop hearing my voice and
hear her own, or at least make her own louder than mine. And I miss her. And I
want her to need me. And I want her not to need me. And I need to live my own
life and not hear my mother's voice above my own.

It's a wonderful time of freedom in my life. The problem is that this freedom comes
only through loss. Maybe that's the way freedom always comes.

 

My story must
continue. It can no longer be defined by my mother or the love and service for
my daughter. There is an buoyancy to these days, and also a dizzying untethered
fear.

So I rest and keep busy and rest again. Order will come. For Allie too as she
treads in the days of her own life. And mother, wherever her soul is. Whenever
and whatever that looks like.

And I type. And listen to the leaves and see Spencer beside me and my future in
front of me.

 

She Was...

Two weekends ago the annual high school girls weekend coincided with our 30 year high school reunion. I saw the girls but did not attend the reunion because high school days are a black hole of despair for me. My brother committed suicide as I started a new high school. Blech.  I still ended up sad and off course, returned to the stress and sadness of those years, When we get together, it brings up all my old shameful memories of hating myself and being self destructive. By the time the weekend ended I had spent the last evening alone crying. I decided I couldn't put myself through another weekend with the pull of yuck that always comes up. They have so much fun. It makes me feel abnormal.


The next week I turned to my hands and spent an afternoon working on my She Art Workshop project. Before I knew it I was writing this phrase for her because that is where I am. Again and again...

The next weekend we hosted a lake weekend for my daughter and three of her girlfriends who will be high school seniors. I remained in that space of my own past. I watched them and realized there is no reason why all four of them still have to be best friends in more than 30 years. But on the other hand if the relationships continue to evolve and bring joy then okay, bring on the epic friendships.


I am sorting through some painful memories and decisions. I try to use gratitude to transform suffering and in order to love that lost girl I am saying prayers of thanks for some things I know I did well during the dark lost years...


Joined drill team. Nothing was like Friday night football and the sound of the drum line echoing off the bleachers, that Doppler effect of horns.


I wrote. A bunch. Articles for the newspaper. Journal pages, poetry. Letters to babe.


I took pictures. Learned photography. Received my beloved Nikon from my dad who believed in my passion and gave me the path to a life long purpose.


I made good grades. Bad choices but good grades.


I worked hard and put myself through college.


I survived when I didn't care if I did.


Mainly, importantly, thankfully I chose great girlfriends. The love was real then. It's better now.

Another thing I know is during yucky dark feelings the colors of my She Art canvas are pretty, soft yet rich. Joy came out of my hands.

And this IS the best I can do.

100 Pink Roses

April 15, 2011 was the day mother went. I was happy for her, excited even. Then she drew her last breath and I went into shock. I had a very difficult time letting her little body go.

Grief is so much different than depression. It is a sharp knife. It is dominated by loss. It is fresh and raw. It is disorienting.

I am clear that the degree to which I grieve and suffer her death says nothing about how much I loved her or miss her. I am trying to be alive and find what joy I can.

This is harder than I thought. I thought I would feel relieved. I am processing the fact that out of my family of 6 there is only me and my disabled brother. I am committed to loving and enjoying my family.

It's a new normal.

I am so often drawn to the juxtaposition of extremes. In the room with mother in her casket I was moved by the beauty of her casket piece. I was so proud of it. I couldn't wait to call her and see what she thought. 100 pink roses. So comforting to have selected beautiful things for her burial. These rare the last things I can do for her. And there her little body was surrounded by flowers. The beauty and the horror. A place I am suspended trying to integrate the loss into my life.

Sunset for Memory

Kim's sister-in-law Memory died after an exhausting, devasting illness.

I just wanted to honor that loss.