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!
All day yesterday, I thought about my father and the unexpected nature of life. As he declined cognitively due to Alzheimer’s, my days seemed to pass too quickly, and there was never enough time with him. As I became more conscious of the limitations and deadlines imposed by his illness and by what it means to live this one mortal life, moments grew longer and more meaningful. Just a moment. A split second. A smile. A laugh. A tear. A memory. My recall now of those moments tends to be in slow motion. Thankfully. I’ve learned that when I become acutely aware of how fleeting life is, I have the power to slow down and take in the present moment.
Not all experiences are meant to become deeply embedded in the memory, but those times when I’m happiest – and right now that means the days, hours, and minutes when I want nothing but peace and I find it and feel it simply – become the salve I need to soothe my soul. The anticipation of meeting up with a new “old” friend (and the resulting pep in my step). Heading out for coffee in a newly discovered café. Sitting and swinging in an unknown spot. All in slow motion the past few days. I remember all of it vividly…today. And maybe, just maybe, that’s all there is, but it is enough.
After six decades on this planet, I’ve learned, and I’m still learning. Don’t count on anything. Don’t count on anyone. Don’t count your blessings, your chickens, or sheep. Actually, in all honesty, don’t count.
I’m not saying this glibly. I’ve given this serious thought for quite some time. Today, this idea of freeing myself from counting and quantifying is at the forefront, as I sit looking out on a sky vacillating between sunny and foreboding. I’ve been waiting for a very long time for the roosters to come home to roost, the chickens to hatch, my blessings to abound and multiply, and for the sheep to put me to sleep. Alas, none of the aforementioned has happened. Alas? Perhaps, although now I’m thinking that these “failures” may be fortuitous after all.
Lucky may not be exactly what I feel about missing the mark on these fronts; relief may be the more fitting description of how I’m feeling at present. It’s oddly soothing to concede to the notion that nothing is guaranteed. Today, as I look to the sky and wonder, “Will the rain subside and the sun come out again?,” I breathe in and realize that it is better to have no expectations.
I have forever believed that people say what they mean and mean what they say. I have forever believed that good things come to those who wait. I have forever believed that if I give enough of myself to others, they will see my worth. Now, I know. I cannot count on people meaning what they say. I cannot count on good things happening if I’m patient. I cannot count on anyone actually seeing my value. I cannot count on anything or anyone to love me into success or worth. I count on nothing. I do have faith, though. I have faith that I’ll see my worth, learn to value and accept myself, and love myself less critically and with more compassion.
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)
As kids, many of us thought that the twelve days of Christmas were the dozen days leading up to Christmas. We smiled, hummed the tune, confusing the lyrics all the while (were the swans singing or swimming?); and then, one day, some of us dug a little deeper about the carol’s history because, well, curiosity and exploration gnawed at those of us with inquiring minds. If you grew up as I did – not knowing much about the intricacies and historical details of Judeo-Christian beliefs because your parents of somewhat contradictory faiths opted to let the Golden Rule guide their parenting and your ultimate disposition as a member of the human race – you then decided it was time to learn the lyrics and the meaning behind them. After all, you needed a bit of trivia to add to adult holiday conversations.
The twelve days of Christmas begin on the 25th of December and end on January 6th, the Epiphany. The days leading up to Christmas are consumerist fanfare, in my opinion; Christmas day and the days following Christmas are the magic. I say this not as a religious being but as a sixty-year-old woman who realizes that the days are growing numbered in many ways; and perhaps therein lies the reason that as we age, we look back and savor memories, especially those that have been created during the holiday seasons.
The second day of Christmas, as I stood filling the carafe with water to make a full pot of coffee because more than one lone imbiber of the brew was in the house, two turtle doves flew into my mind. Doves. The symbol for peace in most literature. However, two turtle doves represent the Old and New Testaments in Judeo Christianity in the carol. Then, on the the fifth day of Christmas as I sat looking out on a very gray and rain-soaked esplanade on the Charles, I heard a very humorous cacophony of cymbals and voices in my head (along with every other imaginable bell and whistle) squealing “five golden rings.” Were the rings the greatest gift? Why such emphasis on those rings? Is it because they were gold, precious, and coveted? Um, maybe. Here’s the bubble-bursting tidbit, though: the rings refer to five ring-necked pheasants. And suddenly, the memory of family huddled and scrunched into Gram & Gramp’s living room belting out “five golden rings” with the accompanying charade-like gesture becomes an even funnier reminiscence of our crazy, wonderful brood in simpler times.
Today, we’re nearly through the twelve days, the 10th day to be exact; and neither of my friends, Sylvia nor Erma, is contemplating the literal or figurative meaning of those leaping lords. Frankly, I’m not either. Instead, my focus is the new year and Epiphany. The ladies have danced; the maids have milked; the swans have swum; the geese have laid; the rings, well, they remain gold; the birds have called; the French hens are now multi-lingual; the doves have soared and now peacefully coexist; and finally, the pear tree still stands. Tomorrow and the following day, the pipers will pipe, and the drummers will drum, respectively. I, along with Sylvia and Erma, will both lament and celebrate the end of the holiday season. And then what?
Twelve days and then the Epiphany. The revelation. Whether or not you “believe” and subscribe to the basic tenets of Judeo-Christian dogma, one truth that cannot be denied is that there exists a multitude of chances ahead of us to do better, be better, live more fully, and love harder. Twelve months. 365 days. 8,760 hours. 525,600 minutes. 31,536,000 seconds. Epiphany takes on new meaning this year for me and all midlife women who have awakened to new chapters. There is time. We are not too old, and it is not too late, but the clock ticks. What are we waiting for?
Wherever she is. Wherever she is going. It doesn’t matter at all. She has finally figured it out. She IS home! She has been wandering and searching and pining for home.
She looked in the mirror this morning and discovered that she was home. She had arrived.
Home for the holidays has entirely new meaning when you realize that you’ve been carrying it with you all along. *********** “It was when I stopped searching for home within others / and lifted the foundations of home within myself / I found there were no roots more intimate / than those between a mind and body / that have decided to be whole.” — Rupi Kaur
Erma, ever the mom, scolds her friend, “Grow up, my friend. If they can do it, you can, too.”
There is quite a bit in this life that makes me cry. Yep, I’m a crier. Tears flow when I’m angry, when I’m sad, when I’m disappointed, and even when I’m overcome with joy (especially when I’m bowled over by something seemingly irrelevant). Forty-eight full hours of doing nothing but enjoying their company; listening to them laugh while watching replays of Veep; and being the doting and maybe even mildly overbearing mom.
I’m driving away now, and I’m smiling and sobbing all at once. They are delighted and happily-at-home in their own place, navigating life as they wish, and making this mixed-up world of ours –of mine – make sense at the moment. I’ve done a lot wrong, but this, this is indeed my legacy. In this moment, I don’t give a f#@* where I live, what I have in the bank, who hates me or loves me. I’m not writing for followers. I’m not editing a Goddamn piece of these last forty-eight hours. It’s all just perfect.
"ARE YOU THERE, ERMA? IT'S ME, SYLVIA." 