Stepping in to the Shadows

I'm a little early for that time of year when I get sentimental and want to show it. Most of the time I wear heavy armor and feel comfortable keeping distance with people except a chosen few. The truth is I'm a romantic at heart. I'm a softy for the feel goods and I want the underdog to win. I also painstakingly try to heal the past or find myself closing the circle of the year during the holidays; I think we all do in our own way. 

The longest, darkest night has a way of calling out to your personal shadows. The past week felt low and I heard the sentiment reflected in many others. I needed something to pick me up. I sense Christmas coming towards me like a bumbling giant. I feel the earth shake as the season enters and this year, I resolved to meet it with a smile and maybe try to be prepared. So I put my tree up today. I put a piece of joy into our space and let my gals sing song the moment into their memories. For me it was more about rearranging and having another light source in my front room. It's just has lights, no ornaments, and I put the white owl on top so it feels like something wise is watching over us. 

I like to think I'm growing kinder with each passing year. Kinder to myself, kinder to the energy I put forth in this world. I've come to appreciate happiness is magic I can make. Also when it is darkest, we all have to find and create our own light and do it for others when they just can't light their own way. I've been finding joy in those sweet passing moments that make me feel good. 

In my youth, I got really good and intimate with feeling low and blaming others. I have a bestie who taught me to make my own happiness. Really just recently, I've come to understand the power in that. Also the magnetism of spreading joy to others. 

That's not to say it's all puppy dogs and kittens over here. I like a good honest chat one-on-one, and the ability to pick apart something in the underbelly of my life that I would like to change. I get super turned off by the always #blessed sort but I dig what they're trying to muster for themselves and their loved ones. It just indicates to me that I'm not at their inner table. I can NOT be at most people's inner table. I assume many of my good friends might not know they're at mine because of how private I am. 

The inner table is set for those you can really trust with the good and the bad. I like to laugh with others but I can also be dark as hell. I also like to bear witness to vulnerability. The truth is though, I can hold the space but I can't mirror the work because I am so scared of myself. I am the underdog; even with all the privilege I have, I come in second place most every time. That's the story I've been telling myself since I was a child and it's stifled most every phase of my life. Me: horribly hard and unrelentingly unforgiving to myself - it's how I learned to survive. 

I've been feeling mostly alone lately, mostly responsible for the child in my childhood since I'm basically orphaned now. As a parent, I see how isolated I became at a young age and how easy it was for me to put on a uniform and go out into the world I was being raised in and check the boxes.

A friend sent some college photos and I looked back on the girl I used to be. I asked D, "would you date her?" He said, "What girl?" at the zoomed in picture. We had a good laugh but the truth about it stung. Not D's candor but perhaps the honest moment with myself that the image stirred up in me. All that armor, all those ways to hide my beauty and potential, to not face myself, to pretend I was getting by so I could actually get by. The girl in that photo had escaped an unhappy home and was relieved to be far away. But she wasn't free enough to go be alive in herself and her experiences. She was stifled always and scared deeply. 

It prompted me to dig through some old emails and reread my youthful voice. There was a back and forth with an old friend over a few years. It was mostly banter and sorting out life in your mid-twenties. I couldn't stand some of the words I put out there as armor, as flirting, as a way to connect. Though I know they were coming mostly from jest and lack of self confidence, they were harsh and not really what I wanted to say. The truth is I never thought I was good enough and I valued this person more than myself. I always felt like the fat girl without a chance. I was too scared to see the opportunity that might have been there and so I didn't take any chances and let the moment pass. I regret that now because the years have helped me understand that mentality is bullshit.

It took me well into my 40s to muster enough courage to put some of these old fears to rest. It took the caring love and support of a good partner to help me see true value in my being. It also took me giving myself the space and respect I so readily threw away before. I've made peace with many things I never thought I would settle and I regret a few moments I never risked. I guess that's who I am in some ways, seemingly brave and courageous, secretly a chickenshit unable to recognize when others care and just want to be there for me. 

Twenty years from now I will be in my sixties wishing I was 40 something again, wishing I was here right now. I imagine the waning vibrance that I am feeling these days will feel like a fire hose of life that has long since left my bones. I will still be writing. I will not forget the joy I've learned to kindle for myself and to spread to others. If all else fails, I will reach out to friends to remind me of these moments that are fleeting but forever part of my story. It all comes down to me. 

I'm going to go tuck those gals into bed. One day, they will be twenty-somethings themselves, far away from me forging their own path and hopefully finding some grace. 

Tethered Thoughts

I’ve been in a caregiving headspace about my mom for two years now. I’ve sifted through the literal remains from her life and distilled a three bedroom townhome into a 600 square-foot room. I still have some of her old papers and photos in boxes in my office. 

Her presence is still very much with me. The person she was haunts me and the person she’s devolved into panders to my emotions. I am a dutiful daughter; she raised me that way. At times even now, two years into a dementia diagnosis, I still think she might be manipulating me. Is it wishful thinking? Have I become so accustomed to her abuse that I long for it now as a way to deal with her disappearing brain? 

I have even begun to grieve her, though she’s still alive. Perhaps it is a gift to be able to walk upon this journey with her – perhaps it is one I give myself as a salve for the mental scars I carry. 

Still, there are days when I humbly acknowledge how hard it is to be a mother, and I am taken by the amount of love and anticipation I have for my children. I’m sure she was the same way, even if she didn’t express it in a way I could relate to well.

Her birthday is this Friday, she will be 84. I feel compelled to bring her balloons. I might have to remind her what they are called, but perhaps not because she always love balloons. It drove me crazy how compelled she was to bring my girls balloons on their birthday. When you have kids, a stale balloon can bumble around your house for weeks under the dawdling security of a toddler. This week the idea lightens me. A dollop for floating hope in an otherwise hopeless situation. 

Drifting Off

Sweet child, though you may not think it, you are not alone. In the silent blanket of night there are signs to remind you of the love that surrounds you. The day retires and whispers moments into your memory that ripple throughout your being. 

As you wrestle your body down under the blankets and let the last surges of movement leave your being, you soften to the stillness that is to come. You remember the turning leaves popping against the blue afternoon sky. The warmth of the sun while you talked to your daughters at the playground. The way the dog reminds you he's always by your side. 

Release the heavy thoughts and wrap the warm feeling of love around you. There is peace in the air and the promise of love - unexpected after so many moments of disappointment. All that remains true is the feeling you are not alone. The gentle unseen forces are softly by your side. 

Reframing

How lucky I am to have time to visit my mother and observe the crazy changes she is going through as a result of dementia. It is a non-cohesive mess she is in. Engaging with her seems like a duty but also like a min-adventure. I have no clue where she will take me - certainly no place she has gone before.

Space and Place

I am at the end of a girl's weekend; it’s Monday morning and I can hear the traffic building. The fence along the street of this corner lot is lined with a hedge, so it creates a secret garden. I can see into the backyard of the house next-door, which faces another direction. The sprinkler under the huge elm in one corner is gently dusting the grass. Purple sage lines a curved brick path along the side of the house to the front gate. It is alluring and it makes me want to follow the hopeful feeling of this backyard. 

I haven’t even looked in all the beds around the edges of this lawn but it is clear someone is tending to this escape. It is lovely; I sense a wise person is caring for this place. The birds seem to love it too. I truly think it’s the best part of this rental. 

In the room my old U of A roommate and I shared, a small shelf called to me, not all the books but rather the curiosity of pulling from the books and finding quick wisdom with a flick of my hands: a note on the inside cover of one that said "Arizona rocks!" and a business card from a bookstore in Waltham from another. I smile at the synchronicities and felt kindred to some unseen presence. I was drawn to Earth Song, Sky Spirit – a book I surely have seen before but not read. It's an anthology of Native American writers. I randomly opened to Paula Guinn Allen’s Spirit Woman. 

I could barely fall asleep after I read the story. I was charged, felt energetic and anxious. It could have been that Dahlia was gone and I was the only one sleeping upstairs. It could have been that I had just spent the weekend with some old college friends I've known since we were silly kids. It could have been I found an escape I greatly needed. It could have been that I was searching for what to do next with my life. All these things. 

I was reaching out for that grandmother feminine energy. I felt encircled by it. It was as if I was waiting for it to deliver a message, assigned to me. It led me to think we are all grandmothers, even tiny Amelia. We all have the wisdom of the ages in our being and the companionship of each other. We are grandmothers from the get go, with our knowing solidified and perhaps just untapped and undiscovered. Age is not the only way we get to the river. Some of us are just naturally connected, some of us wander for years to get there, some of us assert our wisdom and some coax it, carry it like a fine light veil. Still we all have our space, our birthright to the knowledge, to the moment and to the flow of the great river of knowing.

I have come to fear the company of women. I have come to feel apprehensive of a coven of us coming together. Deep inside I wonder if it is because I am not aligned with myself, though I am more aligned than I have been in forever. Perhaps it’s that I sense so much worn out emotion from the women I know: the ones working and raising children, tending a home and taking care of family, frazzled and fearful for the spiraling path our society seems to be taking. I don't fear the world though, this living earth, this grandmother so entrenched in the circle of time, knowing this is but a mere story, a moment, all drips in a much longer lifetime.

I feel these things and yet I do not speak of them to my friends. I sit silent or let their stories take center stage or fall flat without battling back. I hide in humor and use alcohol to relax. Alone I feel free and alive and vibrant but I do not express myself the same way in the presence of others. I am scared of myself, I am scared of others; I don’t know how much to give and what boundaries to draw. I should release all fear of giving and do it with a gracious heart.

I'm thinking now that this house came to us for a girls weekend. The space, not perfect but kind, and just fine for us. Perhaps us too, bringing our energy to this house, as we had to a few others in Tucson, letting it shelter a few kind travelers since it has not had many guests.

Enough.

This morning I’m gutted. I couldn’t take anymore. I was feeling so emotional about 19 kids getting gunned down in their elementary school in Texas yesterday. I finally felt it was my duty to tell my kids before another kid shared the news with them about school shootings. So for the first time I told my own girls how some kids go to school and don't come home. 

All the while thinking I should be recording this because this is disgusting. The innocent eyes, the gentle questions. The sheer clarity of how obscene it sounds. I agree with them whole-heartedly. This is our world, this is America, and it’s not OK. 

I told them that the drills that they do at school are drills for this situation - they hadn’t really known that before now. I told them that the person who did this in Texas was sick and, when they asked, I told them yes he was dead, a police officer shot him. 

A didn’t want to go to school. M asked if we could go now. I’m not quite sure which is more disturbing in the face of this: the desire to just shut down or resolve and resilience.

I can’t believe this has been repeating itself since Columbine - that moment still so fresh in my mind. All the parents, family, and friends who have gone through this each day since they’ve lost a loved one.

We are all victims here. We are all entrenched in damaged communities and I have no misjudgments that some communities have been surging for years because of decades of disproportionate resourcing. But still it indicates sickness in our streets.

I had to tell them it’s not just in schools. It happens in grocery stores and places of worship, it happens at concerts, it happens in yoga studios, the list goes on and on. What the fuck is wrong with us?

Morning

Waking up this morning, the sounds of early spring are so hopeful. I open the blind by the chair I sip coffee in and scare the duck that’s been hanging out searching for food. He’s been showing up lately without his partner. Since there are no squirrels to be found, I’m hoping he can eat. It is chilly and Martha is out in the coop so I give the chicken some corn too. 

Now I’m sitting here trying to piece together my day and my life. I woke up feeling hopeless but the birds would not hear it. They called to each other from the trees. Their songs so light and so confident, not for one moment did they remain silent. The sprinklers hummed to life too and the traffic on a distant road. I joined the buzz. I went out into the morning and felt the cool air through my unbrushed hair. The coffee brewed, the dog stretched his bones and went back to bed. 

I will carry on like this, hoping that somehow a lighter feeling will come soon and I will be free of the weight of this mess.

Spiraling Through Time

My 83-year-old mother told me she didn’t feel 83, she felt younger. She said this from the comfort of her recliner spread back, not having moved for a while, her walker nearby. She said it from the comfort of her dementia too. It seemed a moment of clarity in an otherwise nonsensical conversation that had me laughing and falling down rabbit holes to catch facts and distill what I could from her memories. She rarely shared them while I was growing up and so now, though they aren’t 100% true, I still feel compelled to follow them and knit the truth from their pieces.

I am 46 now; I don’t feel 46 either. My mother tells me I look good, perhaps it’s because I just got my haircut. I am not happy with how my body looks. I’m getting old but in her quiet room on the fifth floor of this assisted-living facility, I feel my youth and vigor, my ability to pop up and walk across the room, to Google photos of her childhood boarding school in New York, to write her a note to leave on the table for her to find later so she does not feel so alone when the night sets in. 

I visit my childhood quite often in memories. I am reminded of moments in the presence of my eight-year-old who walks around like a hologram of me when I was young. It is a gift to be with her and to view myself from a parental vantage point since I no longer have my parents to give me perspective. Time is as contrived as all the other systems we have been indoctrinated into. We are caged by this framework since the day we were born rather than freed to flourish throughout it's entire spectrum. 

I do not feel old but my body is slowing down and the waxing of years has built up faster than I anticipated. Yet in a heart beat, I can jump back to learning how to ride a bike, to my first place in college, to being pregnant and moving in to our home. I watch my mother jump around in her experiences too. Her neurons misfiring and jumbling the facts, making a relative a brother she never had, handing me names I’ve never heard. Somehow though it’s soothes her; even when I have to break the news that my grandmother is no longer alive or that my dad has been dead for 11 years. Often I derail her plans to move to Florida with him or to choose to stay in Colorado while he moves, which makes more sense because they were unhappily married and divorced for more than 15 years before he kicked it. We never talk about the divorce. 

I watch her feel her way through this web of thoughts, get disappointed about the deaths, and then asked to go shopping all in one or two minutes. I know the real treat is that I am just sitting with her, listening to her, and relieving the loneliness and confusion that sets in when she is left to her own devices. I see her struggle to escape the confusion by falling into old patterns of what she would do as a homemaker. She tells me she needs to go grocery shopping, to the bank, and to get light socks because the heavy ones are too much on her feet now that it is getting warm. She tells me her feet sweat, she tells me things she would never have revealed to me as my caregiver, as a woman bread in the '50s with the expectations of that generation. 

I remember how she would cobble six fruit cocktails together as dessert in thick glass cups with stems that felt fancy and fun as a child. I tell my kids about this, about the things she would do that seemed delightfully odd and now almost mythical because that person is slowly disappearing and they see how nonsensical she has become. I tell them because they would have loved it, because she still believes she can watch them for a night and spoil them the way she wants to while she gives Andy and I a break. I find myself making Shirley Temples in wine glasses for them because that’s something she would’ve done. The Gen X parent in me worried I’m indoctrinating them into drinking while the caregiver in me appreciates the lightness of something familiar from the happy moments of my youth. I too am still a nine-year-old longing to be fancy and I have a real wine glass with a fun drink to cheers and clink like an adult.

I look at my girls as little people. Perhaps I am too candid with them about life and death, about things I should hold off on explaining until they’re older. Then I imagine their trajectory, about how fast life flows and how I can’t control the moments they will find their way back to when they time travel. I remember how their entrance into my life saved me in many ways but mostly from myself, mostly from my desires to not care. I admit how quickly this journey we are on will pass. Each step feeling whole and true right now but it will be no time at all before we are looking back at all of this "so long ago" and seemingly only yesterday.

My mom is spiraling along this wheel too and time has been tossed away as irrelevant. As I sit with her sometimes she can’t quantify my age, so I am simultaneously a teen and an adult with a husband and two kids. To be honest, I find it refreshing and true now that I am no longer disturbed by the lack of sense. Aren’t we all different versions of ourselves at any given moment - pulling from every phase and experience we have lived over the years? All those moments remain in our being whether as part of the trunk of our existence holding us up or as flowers that have bloomed from something so powerful it made us become.

In this moment I am walking my mother home. Each day she moves slower, she’s practically in a wheelchair. She has moments of clarity and frustration, embarrassment, and moments where she grasps to recall the woman she was. She still feels compelled to her duty as a matriarch, to the story she told herself about her marriage, to the society she lived in so long ago. Now she stares out the window, wandering her memories, aching to control the lost words or make sense of what once seemed so easy.

I cannot figure out why she won’t let go or admit she wants to let go. At the same time, I admire her compulsion to mother us still, mother us always, to not leave in case we need her help. This is what I like to believe in to make sense of this ending because otherwise I get frustrated and angry at the slow progression of her exit.