“Memories are either comfort and joy or grief and sorrow.”
“No, they are both, and at this time of year, they are everything,” Erma chimes in.
“Not everything, Erma. I don’t need them to be everything today. Comfort and joy will fit the bill just fine. A little bit of kindling or better yet the spark to ignite comfort and joy,” Sylvia offers in a peaceful, yearning tone.
Oh, tidings of comfort and joy! **************** At times our own light goes out and is rekindled by a spark from another person. Each of us has cause to think with deep gratitude of those who have lighted the flame within us. ~Albert Schweitzer ****************
I’ve been traveling pretty much non-stop since mid-January – caregiving, visiting old friends, making new friends, discovering and uncovering, and above all else, trying to make changes to a life that stole away parts of me long forgotten – and slowly, I’ve become the main character in my story. There have been a fair number of plot twists, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. My story might not seem all that interesting to anyone else, but I must say it’s been keeping me excited (often in an unsettling and even uncomfortable way); engaged, and committed to writing and turning a page or two each day.
I’m no longer journaling about a stranger’s life, the woman I had thought lost or who had disappeared altogether. I’m living on the outside, not waiting for life and all of the feelings it conjures daily to happen to me so that I can react. I’m experiencing everything from the mundane to the extraordinary; and for the first time in a very long time, I’m more interested in me and the woman I’m becoming than the woman I was! ********* Screw the mid-life crisis Go have a mid-life spa day A mid-life quickie A midlife tiramisu But whatever you do DON’T give in to mid-life blues! -Sanjo Jendayi
I remember thinking that I wouldn’t survive without her. A minute, an hour, a day, a month, a year. Now, it’s fifteen years, and there are so many times when I still have to convince myself that her absence is real.
What do I miss most about her? God, so many things. Her wisdom. Her caring, blue eyes. Her voice, quite often the voice of reason and pragmatism. Her quiet strength coupled with an endless supply of empathy and compassion. Her fierce instinct to protect those she loved.
Mom was selfless to a fault, though. She forgave quickly and reserved judgment even when someone deserved a bit (or a lot) of criticism or antipathy. She didn’t hold a grudge, most likely because her energies were needed and valued elsewhere. I truly wish she had saved more of everything for herself, especially as she neared death. Instead, she dug in deeper. All that made Mom a great mother, wife, grandmother, sister, and friend endured until her last breath.
She was perfectly imperfect. In the nearly forty-seven years I had the privilege of her presence and love, one of the things I came to admire most about my mother is that she would listen to everyone else’s opinions of how she should act, react, and deal with others, and then she would follow her heart (especially when it came to anything or anyone she believed in or cared for deeply). A woman of conviction and depth.
Fifteen years since that May Day when she left so many of us to figure it out for ourselves. Perhaps that was the greatest lesson she taught – each of us has to figure it out on his/her/their own. Yes, it takes a village to get through this life; to confront death, however, we must accept that we are on a solo journey. In the end, we must make peace with ourselves.
Mom, I know it now. I have learned it the hard way. Perhaps we all must learn it that way. The “it”? Happiness is fleeting, but peace– real inner peace– that feeling of calm when yearning and desire take a backseat to an unyielding acceptance of self, that’s what allows us to say goodbye.
Until we meet again, Mom. I’ll see you in my dreams, hear your voice in my head, and look at Chandler and see all that was good, kind, and loving in you. Always in my heart.
61?! I spent yesterday crying on and off about how little I had accomplished in these six-plus decades. However, in the middle of the night, I began to receive birthday greetings from friends across the globe, and I decided to stop beating myself up with my own expectations and sense of failure. Good thing because what a waste of an extra hour as we set the clocks back! I’d like to attribute that extra hour on MY DAY as divine intervention and a dire reminder.
The greatest gift ever given to me has been time. My mom was the ultimate purveyor, especially to her family. So, it was bittersweet that as she neared death, she shared with me something that weighed on her –neither a resentment nor a regret-but rather a missed opportunity. As we discussed every little and big meaningful moment in her life, she admitted that she wished she had been kinder to herself. She wished she had taken time to love herself.
“Don’t always put yourself last,” she warned. “If you always show others that they come first and that what they need or want matters more, then in the end, you will be put last and come last. You will take a back seat in your own life.” I remember how my heart sank and how I hoped that I had made my mother feel important and loved. I always saw my mom as the driver and the conductor in her (our) family until that moment. I thought then and still ruminate to this day about how I treated my mother, my best friend, and my confidante. And now, more than a decade after her passing, I realize what she was trying to tell me: Don’t seek validation from others. It was not until she stared death in the face that she realized she wanted to live –not for everyone else for she had ‘willingly’ put herself last – but for herself. She had waited to show others that she was important and that she valued herself first. And alas, how she chose to experience her death– the where, the how long, and in whose presence and absence- that was her way of saying, “This last chapter of life is about me. I come first now.”
So, as my birthday comes to a close, I’m gifting myself time and love. After all, isn’t that all we ever have? One is running out, and one is finally growing.
One of my favorite people in the world is another Scorpio sister; she and I met nearly two decades ago when I was teaching middle school English at a small private school. I had the pleasure of having her son, a quick-witted and vibrant young man who has since made his way in the world fearlessly and whom I am proud to call friend. Both my soul sister and her son –actually, the entire family including her husband (the “punniest” man I know), their fur baby Lua, as well as their eclectic and completely welcoming groups of friends – have expanded my world in myriad ways, but no way greater than sharing their deeply-seated love of exploration and their zest for living and loving fully.
While my friend and her husband have been in Europe on another adventure, they graciously offered me their home in the Pacific northwest (dog, plants, and roses galore). “Work” never feels like work when I’m on an adventure of sorts. From learning to use an electric mower to visiting Williamette wine country to outings where food, beverage, and above all else laughter were abundant, the months of September and October to this point have been full. My soul is lighter. My heart is fuller. My mind is clearer. And for more times lately than I can remember, I have felt like I – just me – am enough. If truth be told, I might even be too much in the very best ways.
I’m making memories, satisfying curiosities, and challenging myself most days. Those days, these days, are indeed sublime. Life itself has been challenging most of the past six decades. I’m going to challenge it back!
“Like wildflowers, you must allow yourself to grow in all the places people thought you never would.”~E.V. Thompson
“Hello there, my truest friend,”Sylvia says as she looks at herself in the bathroom mirror. She walks away and then turns around quickly to catch another peek. Not satisfied with a quick glimpse, she leans in over the bathroom sink and takes a closer look. “Yep, it’s me, not still me or the same me,” she assures herself, breathing a sigh of relief. She exhales forcefully directly on the mirror, and as it fogs, she embraces the prospect of not knowing who she is becoming and points to her reflection, “Let’s just keep you and everyone else guessing. After all, who doesn’t love a good surprise?!”
She would have been 84 today. She would have awakened begrudgingly because Dad would have been rummaging through the top drawer of his tall-boy dresser for a hankie, and rather than hold the brass pulls until he closed the drawer quietly, he would have let the pulls drop and jingle. She would have lifted her head from the pillow, given him the look she had been giving him for more than fifty years –the look of a loving tolerance and incredulity since he never learned that his idea of quiet and hers were two totally different things – and then he would have gone to her side, kissed her, and whispered, “Love you, Don. See you later.”
See you later. We say it all the time. As we walk out the door and go off to work or school, the chorus is always the same. See you later. When we meet up with a friend whom we know (but we really don’t know) we may see soon, the standard farewell rolls off the tongue. See you later. As often as we say it, glibly, matter-of-factly, and without any thought to what comes next, we assume later will definitely be our meeting place. At some point, though, later never comes. Later becomes “what if” and “I should have said” more often than we ever care to imagine. Never is later.
Almost a half of a year into my sixth decade, and now fourteen years without the daily wisdom Mom shared with me in both little and small ways (alternating between an implicit and purposeful pedagogy of sorts that only a mother masters), I believe that we never learn our lessons. Never. And I definitely do not believe that we will learn this particular lesson later. Time waits for no one as the saying goes; and yet, with reckless disregard for both the passage of time and life’s promise of mortality, we wait for, hope for, and count on later. When do we decide –when do I decide -–not to count on later? Never. The lesson we have all learned after losing anything or anyone who matters to us is that this is all there is. There is no later. There is no do-over. And yet, here we are with unrelenting hubris thinking that we are so special, such good people, that we will be chosen to have that special time we refer to as later.
Never is the only thing that comes later. I guarantee it. I know it. I’ve been waiting fourteen years, fourteen years worth of birthdays, holidays, special occasions, sunsets and sunrises, to get back time and say all the things I didn’t say to her. Later never comes. Later is too late.
Have I learned? Perhaps. Will I remember the lesson? Will I remember the lesson that her birthday, every Mother’s Day, and the anniversary of her death teach me each year? There is no later. Never is later. Say it now.
****************
Dear Mom,
For fourteen years, I have promised you that I would try to live my best life. I have tried, but I can do better. I promise that I’ll begin. I’ve been putting it off ’til later. Later is not coming; and I fear never is right around the corner.
It’s a gray day here in New England, as many of them are this time of year. The snowfall is tapering off; and Mother Nature has left an adequate blanket of white to remind us that (1) she’s in charge; and (2) nothing is permanent. The wind blows and creates mini dunes in otherwise unscathed parts of the neighborhood (although quite frankly and much to my chagrin, there are few untouched and undeveloped parcels left here).
It’s the thirteenth of February already. Anyone else convinced that as we age that damn clock seems to tick faster, and the pages on the calendar are ripped off even faster? I’ve lost a lot since 2020. We all have. Time especially. I’m thinking about this because? Because I’m alone. It’s quiet. The silence is so loud that all I can hear is the wind blowing and the clock ticking. Am I wasting time? Maybe. Some may think so, and often I agree, but not today. I think the universe gives us days like today expressly for the purpose of pausing. There is an inherent need for quiet and for rest, and yet most of us don’t know what to do with ourselves; lack of activity equates to laziness, yes? No. Not at all. In fact, I only wish my mind would rest as much as my body does. The ticking of the clock isn’t measuring my steps, my hours online, the miles I’ve ridden or driven. The near-deafening strike that the clock-hand marks as each second passes reminds me today that there’s a lot left to do, more to become – and yet I mosey and we dilly-dally – we squander our time consuming ourselves with the notion that we must be busy. We are so busy. Too busy to call. Too busy to write. Too busy to stop and listen to the wind blow, to hear the icy snow tapping on the windows as it begs to come in, and to recognize our inner voices when they tell us to rest both body and mind.
I’m listening today. It’s one of the “busiest” afternoons of this type that I’ve had in a while. Imagine that? Mother Nature knows. And let me just say that I’m not surprised she knows; after all, she is a woman.
Today, Mother Nature is my purple.
(Video rights @debra_coetzer; Music rights Lady Gaga & Mark Ronson)
“You are going nowhere fast, Sylvia. That may sound harsh, but it’s the truth,” Erma cautions her best friend.
Sylvia could feel those words going into her core like a knife. No anesthesia. No sugar-coating. Erma, never one to mince words with Sylvia –the woman to whom she vowed brutal honesty and unwavering support –was certainly living up to her end of that deal. With a tone of equal parts disappointment (in herself and Erma) and reluctant acceptance, Sylvia replies, “Ouch. That really smarts!”
Smarts. It is a curious expression, don’t you agree? Smart is generally associated with intelligence and sharpness – both in appearance and intellect. “He’s such a smart dresser.” “She has such a wry sense of humor and can be a real smart aleck!” The verb though is a whole different ball of wax. “That smarts.” That hurts. It stings. When something smarts, well, it is the result of a painful remark or misstep. In this case, Sylvia feels wounded, almost bitten. She knows that Erma’s comment is meant to be constructive in some way; but at that moment, Sylvia cannot figure out her friend’s intention. The truth hurts; of that, she is abundantly aware.
“Erma, what do you mean? Why would you say that? After all, I’ve been on-the-go since the beginning of the year pretty much,” Sylvia questions. “I’m going somewhere. “
Recognizing the hurt and defensiveness in her friend’s tone, Erma realizes her statement demands clarification. “Nowhere. I didn’t mean that the way it came out. What I should have said is that you always amaze me. No plan. No painstakingly contrived itinerary. You’ll go anywhere! Anywhere is nowhere without a name, a ticket, or a place to call your own.”
That smarts. Sylvia decides to pull out the knife, dress the wound, and begin again in this moment.
“There would have been more I love yous … more I’m sorrys … more I’m listenings … but mostly, given another shot at life, I would seize every minute of it … look at it and really see it … try it on … live it … exhaust it … and never give that minute back until there was nothing left of it.” ~Erma Bombeck
"ARE YOU THERE, ERMA? IT'S ME, SYLVIA." 