Mothering

Take me with you into the adventures of your life. 

Show me the things that get you excited. 

Tell me why you want to try something new. 

I want to bear witness to your living, I want to be a part of your dream. 

I am a moon orbiting your world, watching from afar. 

Occasionally you look back at me and feel my glowing presence.

Stored Moments

I’m thinking about how a person knits two years together. They are seamless in fact but they are definitive a measurement, created from some being long ago. We continue to agree that this is the way and yet in the silence of the morning, alone with our breath, we each know we have our own way of measuring the phases we move through.

Joy is...

M and A telling me stories and making me laugh.
Silence and a good cup of coffee first thing.
Sharing 18 years of adventures with Andy.
Conversations with an old friend.
Hearing people's true stories.
Feeling healthy in my body.
Creating something I love.
Remembering my dreams.
Willy wanting to be held.
Making connections.
Moving my body.
Planting stuff.
Breathing.
Love.

I love you too

Last week was a tough one. At the end of a long week, I found myself watching a 103 temp unnervingly as I tried to cool miss m down. We lay in my bed together. I was trying to think of stories or things I could tell her to take her mind off of being sick.  I too was getting sick. At one point I said, "I love you" and she looked at me and said, " I love you too" with a soft easy tone that struck me right between the eyes. I started to cry and couldn't stop/didn't want to. It reminded me of my dad. I think it was a culmination of the tone, the speed, the utter belief in the statement, like "yeah, I love you too...you know that." M thought I was going to throw up. I assured her it was not the case. When I caught my tears again, I told her she reminded me of Grandpa Cornish. I told her even though I was crying it made me happy.

I felt like a little piece of him came for a brief visit, to remind me how acceptance and love truly feel.

...

A co-worker lost her dad two weeks ago. She is rambling though that dark landscape of new death. We caught up today briefly and she's the only person I mentioned my dad's birthday to. She asked me how that made me feel and I said happy; it's one of the "anniversary" days I prefer to celebrate. She asked me what I loved about my dad and for some reason I didn't get to answer (I think we gravitated back to her dad). Still, for a moment, I want to remember just a few things I love and miss:
- he was the smartest man I knew
- his big broad nose, how mushy it could be
- his in-toned "OK" pause he would take while explaining something he found intellectually stimulating, when he wanted to check and see if someone was following his train of thought in the conversation (sometimes this was annoying too)
- the way he would look over his glasses at things
- watching him do a puzzle
- looking through pictures now I realize he always had an open chest (rather than rolling his shoulders forward and hiding his heart)
- a wonderful smile and a laugh
- how it felt to hug him
- the comfort I felt in his presence
- his humor
- his kind heart
- his blue eyes
- his Thunderbirds ( I think of them quite often and love to see them on the road)
- the way he would look at me and make me feel like he was really looking at me and taking in where I was in my day or my life and no matter where that was, he would tell me he loved me

I miss my dad often, I always will. I do love moments that inspire memories of him. There are many moments and a few people who inspire my joy and hopefulness in this life. My dad is certainly high on the list.

The Scholarship

We met tonight, four years since my dad's death. It was more light, a moment I had been wanting to come to. Still there are days when I can't believe he's gone, or I wish I could hear his thoughts or look in to those eyes. The weight of his death has become familiar, though I'm still not happy to know it.

I was watching a movie last night, The Stories We Tell. It's Sarah Polley's attempt to unravel the truths behind the many lenses a story takes on when told by all the people affected. It's been on my watch list for a while and having time alone this week has made it the perfect choice. The story itself is heartbreaking and alive in so many ways. The documentary is okay but there is a moment at the end where she shoots each of the storytellers sitting with the reality of her mother's death. And in each face I recognized a familiarity: a silent knowing and a wordless pause that gives way to pain behind the eyes and deep-throated breaths followed by the stagnance only death can encompass.

We met tonight and there was little talk about the sadness behind the reason. The weather was rainy and fall was in the air. The place had a nice pub feel thought the 80's music was not setting the mood I anticipated. It was impossible not to be light with the music in the background. In fact we were quite funny about the whole thing. The only thing denying my perfect experience were the fruit flies. Still we sat talking about life and joking about things, as we always do, as we always will. Drinks in hand and wit flashing from our tongues.

Towards the end of the night a I decided to be brave and suggest my silly thought that came to mind on my way over in the car. It's versed in good tidings to a stranger and not really something my dad would do, though he probably bought his share of drinks in his day and would like the lightness of it. Nancy called it "the scholarship" and I thought it suiting for a nickname though not as intense or serious as that and possibly falling short of a true tribute a group of girls would want to send their loving father.

This idea is light in nature. It's about pushing a little positive in to some one's day, while breathing life in to the memory of our dad. For a moment, RAC's spirit could be at the bar while some lucky soul enjoyed a gin and tonic on his dime. My first attempt to describe this to the bartender was uncomfortable at best. That's why I prefer to write. I've got it down now: "With the cash we're giving you, we're remembering our father. Please tell the first person who orders a gin and tonic that Dick Cornish bought them a drink."

I left the bar soon after; I had to get home to the kids. On my way home I imagined years from now, when one day we might fall privy to the person at the bar getting the drink. I thought it might be fun to experience that moment. Nancy texted soon after I got home saying they met the guy who ordered the drink. She said it was a really cool experience. I have yet to hear the story but I like to think the world, for one more day, felt my dad's energy.