mom

21

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Dear Graham.

Here we are. Another milestone. Another destination.

You are here. At twenty-one. It’s a crossroads. You are what the world considers to be an adult. Grown in body. Old enough to buy yourself a cocktail at will. What a funny age marker we have made for the world to hand over the task of adulting to people.

It’s weird to me because a part of me still sees you as this…this growing little boy, excited at just how much he grew over the summer, proud of his ability to read a Berenstein Bears book, and thrilled over his own sheer bravery at learning how to jump off a diving board and ride a bike. Except now, your accomplishments aren’t as easy to see as when you were 3, 5 or 15. These milestones are more subtle. They feel more spiritual than physical, more vague than tangible.

But I see it every day - these changes are still happening in you. Although now, it’s on a different level. One that most people can’t see. You are growing more now than ever before. Only those that truly see you will know these changes.

I hope you continue to walk this path. It’s harder than the one you have been on. You are forging your own way through it all now in territory I am only vaguely familiar with. You see, this is YOUR path. Your direction. You are in the driver’s seat now. And you have been for a while. All I can do from here is guide you in the way I know…but you see, I am not the expert of you. YOU are the expert of you!

Be patient with yourself. The road isn’t always clear. Be kind to you. Treat yourself like this little boy in the photo. How would you guide him? Hold him? How would you carry him so he is safe? How would you tackle the parts you don’t know anything about? Treat him like those who love you treat him. Tenderly. Kindly. Patiently.

I don’t have a literal gift for you today. Nothing to unwrap. Nothing to throw away in a few years after it’s broken, worn or outdated. But I have an offering for you. Today, I offer you the keys to your life. You are free to be you.

Just remember this…I will ALWAYS be here. I will always have something for you. I offer you a port in a storm, a soft place to land, and forever a warm meal when you need it.

And, without question, I offer you all my love.

Love forever.

Mom.

Good Grief

in , ,

Grief is a curious and sneaky emotion. It lurks around those dark corners, waiting to pounce on you when you least expect it. Sometimes it stands out there - front and center - challenging you to try to avoid it's clutches. But it's smarter than you. It knows your escape routes. It knows the places you hide. So it always finds you, weak and tired from all the running and avoiding.

I have lived with Grief for a while. I had brushes with it in the past through lost relationships and the general passage of time. But I didn't really get to know Grief until my Mom got sick and died. I knew it was coming. We all did, really. But honestly, there is no way to face it until you come face-to-face with it.

Grief washed over us this day 11 years ago when my Mom took her last breath. We all stood, side-by-side, hand-in-hand, watching helplessly as she slipped away to a dimension I don't quite yet understand. And then Grief stepped in to overshadow it all and run the show for a while. It cozied up to us when my father died one year later. Then, I got real familiar with Grief when my sister died a few years ago. We are well acquainted now.

I used to try to avoid Grief, like the close talker with bad breath at a cocktail party. I had ways of slipping away - or so I thought. But it always knew where to find me again. Lurking in corners, in empty spaces, just waiting for me everywhere.

I live with Grief now. We understand one another. Once I stopped running from it, our relationship became something I understood. I am not afraid now. I know when it comes around, I just need to be with it...sort of lean into my time with it. This isn't something I ever understood until we played the game and I always kept losing. Grief always found me. So I decided to let it in.

I miss my mom. But I have learned to live with this life without her and with Grief standing in her place. I have no other option but to lean into that. I spent so much time exhausting myself by running away from it all the time. But I can't anymore. I am too tired and it knows all my tricks.

So now I lean into the tears, the hurt, and the memories. And suddenly and swiftly, Grief slips away so we can get on with our days once again, living in the present.

 

Ten.

in ,

Ten Years.

A decade has passed since you left us...a decade since our little party ended too early for my liking.

Ten years is a long time to love something you can't see or feel or touch or hear or talk to. It's a long time to love something that is no longer tangible. I can look at these pictures and try to remember what is was like to walk down that sunny street with you on that crisp fall day, or what it was like to eat chocolate together, or play Yatzee before bedtime, or just melt into the the comfort of your soothing, strong voice on the phone.

But it's not the same, is it? Memories always feel like they become more translucent as time goes on until suddenly and without warning, you can't see them anymore.

In ten years, I have become a pro at living around the hole you left behind. I did my fair share of falling into it's clutches in the early days. But now I know how to co-exist with it – dodging it's jagged edges and walking around it's stony cliffs. Sometimes I stand on the edge of it, just looking in... just remembering. But I know now how to climb out and dust myself off. I know where it is. And I know how to live with it.

Death changes the landscape of your life. Grief and sorrow become the pit you live around. You lose your way. You lose your sight. You lose your sense. It's disorienting and all-consuming – like being in a storm at sea without a mast to your sails or oars to a boat. And through it all, you still have to pretend like you have some semblance of control.

After ten years now, I have figured out that this landscape that I got used to in my early days will keep changing. Life will continue to shift things, so we can't get too attached to the view. Babies will be born. Children will graduate and become adults. Family members will pass on. Relationships will fail. Trust will be lost and found again. Friendships will be made. Love will be had. It's all part of the landscape of life: it's ever-changing. 

So I will just strap on those hiking boots and keep learning how to make it through the dry, harsh deserts and deep, musty caves. I will swim and sail through dark, stormy seas and slink through the wild, sticky heat. In the end, I hope see it all and witness the brilliant spectacle that is life.

In the meantime Mom, just keep being that shiny star, helping me navigate this ever changing terrain. I still need you.

With love,
Libby

 

Dear Mom.

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mom

There is nothing I can say today that I haven't already said over the years. The days get easier as time moves on. We are slowly healing from the wounds that were left after you were gone...but those deep wounds and holes of emptiness get filled with things that aren't real.

The days still come. Swiftly at first. And then less so. But they come whether we want them to or not, whether we expect them or not. We just know how to navigate through the choppy waters a little better now.

Every day I miss something about you...both of you. I can't express in words what it's like to live on a planet without you. Suddenly, I am aware of being exposed and completely alone - naked on a boat in the middle of the ocean with no oars and no land in sight. It feels uncomfortable and so unfamiliar.

You look for ways to make it more comfortable...more tolerable. But soon you realize that nothing works to heal it. It just "is." You have to go through it now. You just have to paddle somehow with what you have and get to the other side.

I have been paddling for 9 years. Nine. That's a long time. But today, instead of resting, I will keep paddling. I will keep moving towards something...towards a shoreline of something bigger than me. And in it, I will try to enjoy the adventure. Embrace the unknown.  I will use everything you gave me and taught me and showed me and said to me as a compass...a guiding light to bring me home.