We've been working on cards, Valentine's cards. Jennifer brought the fixings--the white card stock with the letters "I (Love) You" cut out. And there's lots of stickers and stamps, even some pink striped papers. Lorna's been tracing and cutting out hearts from the paper and Mom (with the help of Jennifer) and I have begun to assemble the stickers onto the cards.
Whenever Jennifer comes, the conversation is lively. I'm not sure why this is, other than the fact that Jennifer is an interesting, articulate woman and Mom likes to talk with her. Sometimes we talk with Jennifer about things I'm sure Mom would never say if it was just her and I conversing. Always, we seem to get into controversial topics, just the sort of thing Mom reveled in before her strokes and her Alzheimer's. In fact, last Wednesday we talked so long and so hard about religion, of all things, that we never got to the point of making a single card. Our conversation got launched with Lorna's laughter over an article she'd seen in the Seattle Times about a couple who married at 90 and 92 and just left for their honeymoon. For whatever reason, Lorna found this hysterical, particularly the idea that this octogenarian honeymoon couple would be reveling in the pleasures of sex. Jennifer tried to argue that all people can enjoy sex, even those who are in their later years. Lorna's comprehension failed her at this point, however, as for Lorna sex is not a treasured activity. "No fun," Lorna says, "this sex." Sex is something she is glad to be done with.
How sex evolved into religion I'm not sure except that soon we were arguing the merits of attending church regularly and hotly disputing the humanness of church organizations, meaning the many ways that church organizations become flawed with our human failings. Somewhere along the way Lorna dropped out of the conversation and then it was just Jennifer and I, with Mom chiming in at times. By the end of the conversation, we had come to the topic of church attendance and raising children, something Jennifer was interested in as she and her partner would like to have a child. I had nothing to say about this, seeing how I don't have children and don't plan on adopting.
So today we know better and begin the card making right away, knowing that our conversation will follow. And it does.
"When did you feel best about yourself?" Jennifer asks. We've been talking about women's self-worth and marriage, a favorite topic. Because we're making Valentine's cards, we've decided to focus on "love."
To myself, I'm thinking--I bet I know her answer. So I say, "Okay Mom, let's hear your answer and then I'll tell you how I thought you were going to answer."
And so she begins--"After he was...you know...when he was...gone...gone."
"After who was gone?" I ask her.
"Him," she says, "him...him,"expecting that I know who "him" refers to.
"That's it," she adds, and when she does I begin to understand, deducing she's talking about my dad, as either it's her father, Peter or dad. These are the only men who have left her.
Jennifer begins to clue in here also. "So Dorin, you felt the strongest after your husband died?"
"Yes," she says, nodding her head vigorously. "Yes, that's it."
I'm surprised, frankly, as I always imagined Mom at the height of her personal empowerment when she got her master's degree--something so difficult, particularly at her age. But no, it was the year or two or three following my father's accident that produced this largess of self.
"Weren't you afraid" Jennifer asks, "when he died?"
"No," Mom answers emphatically. "No...so much...you know...so much...to...to...do."
So in those difficult months when Eric and I felt immobilized by dad's death, my mom, out of necessity, was coming into her own, assuming the business tasks my father left her as well as the parenting tasks she had already taken on. Her life was full in a way it had not been before, and she was in charge. No more bickering with my father about decisions. She just made them.
It's here in our conversation that I remember a letter written to Mom, something I've been carrying around in my carpet bag for weeks. Recently, I found the stack of eighty-nine condolence cards Mom saved regarding Dad's passing. Most of the signed names meant nothing to me. They came from Denver, Monument Valley, Spokane, Bergen, Seattle, Portland, Boise, New York, Chicago. The ubiquitous phrase--"Our thoughts and prayers are with you"--made me purpose to never write these words to anyone. Not ever. By themselves, they appear to convey concern, but in mass they become platitudes offered in lieu of meaningful communication. Surely there are other words to be chosen to convey sorrow, empathy? Somebody actually sent a placard entitled--"Rules for Daily Life"--where, amongst other things, the reader is admonished to "acknowledge every good bestowed and offer grateful praise." I thought, what about "every bad bestowed"--what was my mom meant to do with these, things like my father's death, my brother Peter's disappearance? I noticed that she too must have tired of the platitudes, as many of the cards remained unopened.
The only letter of interest came typed from a friend and business associate of my father's--Hal. His letter is dated August 16th. Hal was there with my father the day he died--not actually there at precisely the time of the accident but nearby. He writes--"I will never forget that day when he left us both." He goes on to say that two days after the accident he returned to Muldoon Canyon and "felt peaceful as if Paul was there with me saying 'Cool it'. 'Cool it', I thought. I don't remember my father saying words like this. 'Cool it', indeed! I wondered then how Mom came to her own peace with my father...if she ever did? I suspected that even now, all these years later, she still hadn't arrived at a sentiment of 'cool it'. His death would always remain a defection, an opportunity he could have seized to display loyalty to life, to my mom, but rather negligently let pass by when the tires of his vehicle ricocheted off the road.
But who knows? In light of Mom's revelation today about how she felt after he died, about how she came into her own, maybe she sees his death differently?
On an impulse, I decide to read Hals' letter aloud to Mom and Jennifer and Lorna. I've been carrying it with me, waiting for a time when the topic of Dad's death comes up--not something Mom talks about usually. In opening the envelope, a faint release of ribbon-ink reaches my nose--how typewritten documents smelled prior to PCs and printer cartridges. Age can have a smell, a memory. I begin okay--steady, calm. But when I get to the poem near the end of the letter--something from Hal's experiences in a German prison camp during WWII--I find I can't continue. Part of the poem comes out fine--"In some far flung wider sphere/a pilot soars a winged victory/Freed of all overestimate flight/Past all barrier now." But my voice becomes unrecognizable with tears when I read the final lines--"A spirit heads off for home/and behind on earth men and eagles weep."
I don't know why this poem, Hal's words, have caught me, as I've read this letter before, several times in the last few weeks since I discovered it. I haven't cried for my father since that first year, 1979, when that's all I could do. I used up all my tears in that extravagant display, or at least I thought I had, But here they are again and not just a dribble. My voice stops because no sound can escape, nothing except my sobs, a heavy, chest-shaking rattle. When I look at Mom, I notice the rims of her eyes are wet, but not anything close to the saline stream showering my face.
We sit like this for a moment--Lorna cutting hearts, Jennifer sticking heart and cupcake stickers to cards, Mom quiet and me out of control with grief, wondering what's going through Mom's head, heart. It's a long time before conversation is possible.
Later, after Jennifer has gone and the cards are done, Mom says to me as I'm putting on my coat--"See you darling." I feel the heat of her words, like these words and the fierceness of her breath need to be everything she might have to say about Dad and his leaving and the life she and I have had since then. She's willing me to be okay, for us to be okay. I know we'll never talk about this again, his dying and what became of all of us in his wake of his passing.
Deeply, a mother's daughter
--this is alifewithmom--
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Thursday, January 28, 2010
the belle of mirabella
When I get to Mom's, it's been a hard day, a hard week. Everything this week has required thought, enormous effort. Mom's problems have been then least of my concerns. What I want to say to everyone in my life, in my classroom, in my family--why can't we all just get along? I've had difficult students this week....difficult class confrontations and resolutions. And then there's the issue of my brother Eric--how we have yet to come to an agreement about him resigning as power of attorney. Everyday I think of him, wondering where he has gone. Not that he's physically lost, like my other brother, but rather that I don't know who he is anymore. When I saw the recent bank statements with the cash withdraws from Mom's account for the months of September, October, November of 2009, months when my brother could have no justifiable reason for taking hundreds of dollars out of her account two, three four times a month, I found myself hollow, emptied inside. Like what's left once the innards of a cantaloupe have been scrapped from the husk. There's just the raw flesh behind. I am well past rage and now have entered into that territory where disbelief no longer exists. There's just knowledge, the terrible kind of apple-tree knowledge, where Adam and Eve have bitten the fruit and know there's no going back. As a psychiatrist acquaintance recently reminded me, we can be as honest as we like, but there are still consequences that follow. Eric bit the apple and now the consequences are following. I just didn't know how painful this would be, watching my brother disappear.
So when I get to Mom's I feel heavy--my body's taken on the affect of my mind. Even my feet are leaden, like the leather buckle boots I wear are just too much. For the last two weeks, Mom's been watching the coverage of the disaster in Haiti. Day in and day, she follows the lives and deaths of hundreds of thousands of people like they are her friends, her coworkers, her extended family. Sometimes Lorna has to turn it off, as Mom gets to crying and can't be stopped but for a dosage of Seroquel. So once I'm through the door today, I can hear the TV set is on and CNN is blaring. Together we've watched a baby pulled alive from the ruble and we've watched shanty-towns appearing in vacant lots where people have made themselves a temporary home out of sheets and sticks of wood and we've watched fear turn to despair and then to rage as camera people and reporters film the stages of grief played out on the faces of survivors.
I wonder what Mom is thinking when she sees all the photos, hears the coverage. Is this her world? Or does she see this as something happening a long ways away? Does she wonder why she is "safe" and 150 people are buried alive under massive piles of concrete? What happened to these not-quite-survivors--are they now part of the death toll? TB...malaria...diseases rampant in Haiti. No water, no electricity, no food, inadequate medical attention. And Mom is here, at the Mirabella, "safe" in her cocoon of Alzheimer's and stroke recovery.
"Do you feel fortunate?" I ask Mom, as we both look intently at the flat screen TV monitor.
Mom doesn't respond. I can't even guess what her answer might be.
But as I've learned, sometimes the unexpected does happen. It never pays to rule out the possibility. So, for example, Mom "made" a sailboat today--took a paint brush, according to Lorna, and splashed green paint on the sides, red paint on the top and a thin yellow trim around the perimeter. The boat is lovely. I wasn't there for the project, so I wonder how much of this Mom painted and how much of it Lorna did. Mom can't grab onto a pen or take a hold of a cup, so painting with a brush seems unimaginable to me. But maybe she did? Maybe this was her lucky day?
When Adama brings dinner, "Sole w/ Julienne Veggies and Tomato Broth," Lorna hauls out Mom's new "apron," something Courtney (the activities director) gave her today. I call it an apron, as Mom would be unhappy thinking it was a bib. Actually, it's somewhere in between--longer than a bib but not as much coverage as a full length kitchen apron. She's thrilled with her new attire and Lorna seems happy--helps with the spillage issues Mom has every time she eats.
With the TV off, the realities of the Mirabella once again assume their urgent importance. I watch as Mom tries to grab her fork full of broccoli, tries to reach for her napkin, none of which does she successfully accomplish. But she's trying all the same. Her arms aren't useless like how my aunt's were in her final days. She's not quite as close to death.
"You're lucky Mom," I say. "A lucky woman." And just in case she doesn't understand, I add--"Lucky you can move your arms...your hands.
Mom stops her chewing then and her mouth hinges opens to a huge laughing grin. I can see the partially masticated fish and vegetables pausing there on her tongue like flotsam.
"Lucky," she beams. "Lucky lady," the phrase Lorna often offers in relation to Mom
We both laugh. Loudly. Loud enough that for the moment we can't hear the screams down the hall.
"Have been..." she continues. "Have been for..."
And I know then what she's wanting to say.
"Have been for eight-five years?" I help her finish.
"Yes," Mom says. "Yes...that's it. It."
"Here she is," Lorna chimes in, nodding at Mom as she surreptitiously scoops more couscous onto Mom's fork. Mom hasn't noticed...her attention has been elsewhere.
"The b-e-l-l-e of Mirab-e-l-l-a," Lorna finishes, her voice a song, notes rising, winging themselves out the door, down the hall. Away from here...from our good fortune...our abundance.
Deeply, a mother's daughter
--this is a lifewithmom--
So when I get to Mom's I feel heavy--my body's taken on the affect of my mind. Even my feet are leaden, like the leather buckle boots I wear are just too much. For the last two weeks, Mom's been watching the coverage of the disaster in Haiti. Day in and day, she follows the lives and deaths of hundreds of thousands of people like they are her friends, her coworkers, her extended family. Sometimes Lorna has to turn it off, as Mom gets to crying and can't be stopped but for a dosage of Seroquel. So once I'm through the door today, I can hear the TV set is on and CNN is blaring. Together we've watched a baby pulled alive from the ruble and we've watched shanty-towns appearing in vacant lots where people have made themselves a temporary home out of sheets and sticks of wood and we've watched fear turn to despair and then to rage as camera people and reporters film the stages of grief played out on the faces of survivors.
I wonder what Mom is thinking when she sees all the photos, hears the coverage. Is this her world? Or does she see this as something happening a long ways away? Does she wonder why she is "safe" and 150 people are buried alive under massive piles of concrete? What happened to these not-quite-survivors--are they now part of the death toll? TB...malaria...diseases rampant in Haiti. No water, no electricity, no food, inadequate medical attention. And Mom is here, at the Mirabella, "safe" in her cocoon of Alzheimer's and stroke recovery.
"Do you feel fortunate?" I ask Mom, as we both look intently at the flat screen TV monitor.
Mom doesn't respond. I can't even guess what her answer might be.
But as I've learned, sometimes the unexpected does happen. It never pays to rule out the possibility. So, for example, Mom "made" a sailboat today--took a paint brush, according to Lorna, and splashed green paint on the sides, red paint on the top and a thin yellow trim around the perimeter. The boat is lovely. I wasn't there for the project, so I wonder how much of this Mom painted and how much of it Lorna did. Mom can't grab onto a pen or take a hold of a cup, so painting with a brush seems unimaginable to me. But maybe she did? Maybe this was her lucky day?
When Adama brings dinner, "Sole w/ Julienne Veggies and Tomato Broth," Lorna hauls out Mom's new "apron," something Courtney (the activities director) gave her today. I call it an apron, as Mom would be unhappy thinking it was a bib. Actually, it's somewhere in between--longer than a bib but not as much coverage as a full length kitchen apron. She's thrilled with her new attire and Lorna seems happy--helps with the spillage issues Mom has every time she eats.
With the TV off, the realities of the Mirabella once again assume their urgent importance. I watch as Mom tries to grab her fork full of broccoli, tries to reach for her napkin, none of which does she successfully accomplish. But she's trying all the same. Her arms aren't useless like how my aunt's were in her final days. She's not quite as close to death.
"You're lucky Mom," I say. "A lucky woman." And just in case she doesn't understand, I add--"Lucky you can move your arms...your hands.
Mom stops her chewing then and her mouth hinges opens to a huge laughing grin. I can see the partially masticated fish and vegetables pausing there on her tongue like flotsam.
"Lucky," she beams. "Lucky lady," the phrase Lorna often offers in relation to Mom
We both laugh. Loudly. Loud enough that for the moment we can't hear the screams down the hall.
"Have been..." she continues. "Have been for..."
And I know then what she's wanting to say.
"Have been for eight-five years?" I help her finish.
"Yes," Mom says. "Yes...that's it. It."
"Here she is," Lorna chimes in, nodding at Mom as she surreptitiously scoops more couscous onto Mom's fork. Mom hasn't noticed...her attention has been elsewhere.
"The b-e-l-l-e of Mirab-e-l-l-a," Lorna finishes, her voice a song, notes rising, winging themselves out the door, down the hall. Away from here...from our good fortune...our abundance.
Deeply, a mother's daughter
--this is a lifewithmom--
Friday, January 8, 2010
what would Nixon do?
It's a new year and yet really it isn't. The same problems that dog us in 2009 are still present when the clock rolls around to 2010. Mom's the same, teaching's the same, the weather's the same, my body's physical needs are the same, the economy's the same. But why should it be otherwise? A hopeful (or serious;y demented) driver sports a bumper sticker on his rear window as I drive to class on Tuesday--"What would Nixon do?" I can't decide if this is a hopeful sign, in that we are so far beyond Nixon in our national greed and political intrigue that Nixon has become irrelevant? Or maybe it's a depressing sign of the time--that people or at least this one driver is so desperate that even Nixon's impeachable answers would be welcome. In any event, the sticker starts a laugh for me, one that carries me well through my drive past Boeing Field till I get to the parking lot of Seattle University. Then the sameness of my life interrupts. These may be new students but I'm not so new. I'm really still the same. So I'm trusting intellect and innovation to prevail once I walk into PGT 309. Usually is does. Today is no exception.
This week at the Mirabella, the first of the new year, Mom has been relatively good. She's sleeping well. She's eating her meals on the whole (meaning she skips most of dinner but eats everything else). In fact, she's eating so much that one of the aides, Salvadore, comments--"Dorin, you were such a little thing when you came....and look at your now." I'm hoping Mom didn't catch the quip, seeing how sensitive she is about her weight. Her skin's a good color. Her brain's engaged with what is happening around her. What's not so good is her inability to communicate--speech evades her consistently now--and her lower body has become nearly frozen. Not even therapist Michael's daily remonstrations can keep her limbs moving.
On Wednesday afternoon we make flash cards, a project Jennifer spearheads. She's photocopied color prints of scenes from sunny blue sky Arizona. Lorna's job is to cut these pictures from the photocopied sheet and Mom's job is to glue them to the white cardboard Jennifer has provided. Jennifer positions Mom so she's propped on the edge of the bed. A month ago, Mom would have been able to sit there, unaided for forty minutes under Beverly's encouragement. Now, she can't stay erect for more than second. Jennifer props pillows and an off-white plushy teddy bear behind Mom's back so she won't fall backwards. Soon we realize gluing is too complex of a task--Mom can't manipulate the glue stick without considerable assistance from Jennifer. So, we retool and give Mom the task of holding down the corner of the pictures so Jennifer can smear glue from the glue stick onto their edges. Both of them press down hard on the surfaces of the print, affixing the glue--Jennifer presses the hardest and Mom lightly rolls her fingertips.
The photos are amazing. Cholla cacti, with their aggressive asexual reproduction. We all get a laugh over this one as Jennifer explains how these cacti reproduce by affixing pieces of themselves to whatever happens along, hoping there won't be need for genetic variation. Saint Mary's Basilica--a mission style church that contrasts dramatically with the modernity of downtown Phoenix. Parry's penstamon, flowers that elicit a long conversation about when and where Mom and I have encountered penstamon on our hikes. Mom comes out with the word "purple,"a seemingly random verbal contribution until I realize she's talking about the color of penstamon we've seen in the wild--all of them having been purple. Fifth Street Fountain in downtown Scottsdale where bronze horses splash and cavort dramatically in pools of cascading water. And then our favorite--sand dunes in Monument Valley. The blue is bluer than any sky I've seen and the dunes roll and ungulate like a tide has gone out recently, the suctioning away of the sea from the sand leaving a pattern of ripples and dips you might find at the beach.
When we've finished making the cards, Jennifer tries to interest Mom in a matching game, asking her to find each card's mate. She places each set side by side, so all Mom has to do is figure out which appurtenant card goes with which. Mom finds this task difficult, if not impossible. We stick with it for fifteen minutes, encouraging Mom to choose photos that both have cactus, both have prancing horses, both have penstemon. Mom's exhausted.
When I leave for the day, I ask Mom and Lorna--"Do you have new year's wishes?" We've just watched King Five News where the anchor people are laughing about new year's resolutions. According to their on-air guest, these best wishes rarely stick as we fail to change our patterns, fail to recognize how we make choices based on who we are, the things we believe, the patterns we've established. As the guest so aptly put this--isn't the definition of insanity to do the same thing again and again and expecting a different result? So I wonder what Mom can wish for the new year? What does an eighty-five year old woman with Alzheimer's and recent stroke hope for?
No one says anything at first, and then Lorna says, shaking her head--"I don't believe in new year's resolutions my dear."
Mom listens to this, appears to take it in, but still there is silence.
"Be happy," Mom says finally. "Be happy....not sad."
Wow, I think to myself. She knows, she's aware. There's so little time left, why waste it with crying.
I think about my own wish, not a resolution for the new year per say, but rather a wish I'd hung on a wishing tree, an international project Yoko Ono is overseeing. When in Idaho, I'd participated in the gallery exhibition for "Speak for the Trees" and the wishes hung on the tree would be forwarded to Yoko Ono, joining many other such wishes from around the world. I'd been overwhelmed at first, not sure of what direction to take with my wish. Surely there were far too many things to wish for. I'd thought about better health for Mom, an end to the economic crisis, an end to the war in the Afghanistan and Iraq. And yet these all seemed well beyond my personal reach. What are wishes for? Are they prayers? Are they calls for action? Do we really need to be able to address them within the the smallness of our own lives?
What I decided is this--wishes become significant only if we can take some small step to bring about their occurrence. Otherwise, they are just imagination, like astrology--something people grab a hold of to feel better about the randomness and chaos of their lives. So, I have little control over Mom's health, no control over economics and war, but what I can do is make a decision about myself, within the constraints of my own little pedestrian world.
My wish: to be myself and to be fully present. Always. In the face of a dying parent, a dwindling income, a fledgling career as a novelist, a dysfunctional pain-inflicted family, a vanished brother, I can still be me as completely as possible. I can still be present. This is something I can do.
Deeply, a mother's daughter
--this is alifewithmom--
This week at the Mirabella, the first of the new year, Mom has been relatively good. She's sleeping well. She's eating her meals on the whole (meaning she skips most of dinner but eats everything else). In fact, she's eating so much that one of the aides, Salvadore, comments--"Dorin, you were such a little thing when you came....and look at your now." I'm hoping Mom didn't catch the quip, seeing how sensitive she is about her weight. Her skin's a good color. Her brain's engaged with what is happening around her. What's not so good is her inability to communicate--speech evades her consistently now--and her lower body has become nearly frozen. Not even therapist Michael's daily remonstrations can keep her limbs moving.
On Wednesday afternoon we make flash cards, a project Jennifer spearheads. She's photocopied color prints of scenes from sunny blue sky Arizona. Lorna's job is to cut these pictures from the photocopied sheet and Mom's job is to glue them to the white cardboard Jennifer has provided. Jennifer positions Mom so she's propped on the edge of the bed. A month ago, Mom would have been able to sit there, unaided for forty minutes under Beverly's encouragement. Now, she can't stay erect for more than second. Jennifer props pillows and an off-white plushy teddy bear behind Mom's back so she won't fall backwards. Soon we realize gluing is too complex of a task--Mom can't manipulate the glue stick without considerable assistance from Jennifer. So, we retool and give Mom the task of holding down the corner of the pictures so Jennifer can smear glue from the glue stick onto their edges. Both of them press down hard on the surfaces of the print, affixing the glue--Jennifer presses the hardest and Mom lightly rolls her fingertips.
The photos are amazing. Cholla cacti, with their aggressive asexual reproduction. We all get a laugh over this one as Jennifer explains how these cacti reproduce by affixing pieces of themselves to whatever happens along, hoping there won't be need for genetic variation. Saint Mary's Basilica--a mission style church that contrasts dramatically with the modernity of downtown Phoenix. Parry's penstamon, flowers that elicit a long conversation about when and where Mom and I have encountered penstamon on our hikes. Mom comes out with the word "purple,"a seemingly random verbal contribution until I realize she's talking about the color of penstamon we've seen in the wild--all of them having been purple. Fifth Street Fountain in downtown Scottsdale where bronze horses splash and cavort dramatically in pools of cascading water. And then our favorite--sand dunes in Monument Valley. The blue is bluer than any sky I've seen and the dunes roll and ungulate like a tide has gone out recently, the suctioning away of the sea from the sand leaving a pattern of ripples and dips you might find at the beach.
When we've finished making the cards, Jennifer tries to interest Mom in a matching game, asking her to find each card's mate. She places each set side by side, so all Mom has to do is figure out which appurtenant card goes with which. Mom finds this task difficult, if not impossible. We stick with it for fifteen minutes, encouraging Mom to choose photos that both have cactus, both have prancing horses, both have penstemon. Mom's exhausted.
When I leave for the day, I ask Mom and Lorna--"Do you have new year's wishes?" We've just watched King Five News where the anchor people are laughing about new year's resolutions. According to their on-air guest, these best wishes rarely stick as we fail to change our patterns, fail to recognize how we make choices based on who we are, the things we believe, the patterns we've established. As the guest so aptly put this--isn't the definition of insanity to do the same thing again and again and expecting a different result? So I wonder what Mom can wish for the new year? What does an eighty-five year old woman with Alzheimer's and recent stroke hope for?
No one says anything at first, and then Lorna says, shaking her head--"I don't believe in new year's resolutions my dear."
Mom listens to this, appears to take it in, but still there is silence.
"Be happy," Mom says finally. "Be happy....not sad."
Wow, I think to myself. She knows, she's aware. There's so little time left, why waste it with crying.
I think about my own wish, not a resolution for the new year per say, but rather a wish I'd hung on a wishing tree, an international project Yoko Ono is overseeing. When in Idaho, I'd participated in the gallery exhibition for "Speak for the Trees" and the wishes hung on the tree would be forwarded to Yoko Ono, joining many other such wishes from around the world. I'd been overwhelmed at first, not sure of what direction to take with my wish. Surely there were far too many things to wish for. I'd thought about better health for Mom, an end to the economic crisis, an end to the war in the Afghanistan and Iraq. And yet these all seemed well beyond my personal reach. What are wishes for? Are they prayers? Are they calls for action? Do we really need to be able to address them within the the smallness of our own lives?
What I decided is this--wishes become significant only if we can take some small step to bring about their occurrence. Otherwise, they are just imagination, like astrology--something people grab a hold of to feel better about the randomness and chaos of their lives. So, I have little control over Mom's health, no control over economics and war, but what I can do is make a decision about myself, within the constraints of my own little pedestrian world.
My wish: to be myself and to be fully present. Always. In the face of a dying parent, a dwindling income, a fledgling career as a novelist, a dysfunctional pain-inflicted family, a vanished brother, I can still be me as completely as possible. I can still be present. This is something I can do.
Deeply, a mother's daughter
--this is alifewithmom--
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