The release of another year of the unthinkable & a memoir on the horizon.
I was standing in the shallow, the salty ocean surrounding my feet with it's tidal push and pull to stir the anger and circulate it through my body. Up my legs, serpent like, flooding into my hips with a pause before gripping my chest and holding my breath. It drew itself back and forth, up and down, until I knew it was safe to scream against the thundering ocean backdrop. Nature's permission. No one can hear me. Ma makes enough noise to cover my back in privacy as I let it all out.
WHY DID YOU TAKE HER?! Why did you place her in all the secret spots that take so much work to find comfort?! - I ask
The mouth of the ocean listens and rhythmically draws out the hurt with the space to feel freely until the push becomes a nudge and the pull becomes my teacher.
Understanding arises. There are times I lose my faith and that is as natural as a sunrise. The briny air connects with my tears and as she is the ocean & the ocean is she... they become one in the same. Slowly, she is with me again. Each particle, each inhale broken down into fragments of breath, she is the moment. In 2010 I boarded a plane to India, a frightened broken woman, with no idea that13 years later, the solo journey I was embarking on would lead me here to weather each year of sorrow with a safe heart. Each year that December rolls into January, life restores to a lighter state. The simple winding of a new year always leaves me feeling that I have done it again. Another year of the unthinkable survived. I put my rose coloured glasses back on and exhale into the new morning moon.
My year has began with a book development program. It is time to tell the story of her and I. Getting into the details of why it is important to me to write a book has been cathartic. It is an exploration of a different kind as I look at the corners and fragments of my mind that often just get lost in the emotion of it all. This is a story to tell for every mother who feels she is forced to live in a strange world surrounded by her grief while navigating a brand new life she never wanted. It is also a story to tell about courage. That courage is not mine, but hers. I hope I can honour who she was and how she left those she knew with a lot to be grateful for. As I listen and learn about book development and publication, it sounds a lot like grief. Completely out of our control. It will be as it is. The steadfast way is to hold true..... and then let go.
APRIL 18/2020
If I knew it was going to be our last day, I would be driving to pick you up and called because I couldn’t possibly wait. I’d tell you to be ready and you’d say you were. I’d arrive and you’d, of course, not be ready. We’d have no plan. It wouldn’t matter.
I’d sit on your 20 something couch and flip through your sketch book as you buzzed around. Vibrant. Light. I was always so happy to see you.
Once you were dressed, always beautiful without trying, effortless effort, we would decide on lunch. Your free lunch. Sushi of course. Your Avo rolls. I’m taken back to the bag of Avocados you got for Christmas one time. We would laugh. We always laughed, and cried, and talked about sorrow and the universe.
After your free lunch I would suggest my free chai. We would go to your work even though it was your day off. I loved the way you took me to your work and proudly said I was your mama.
Then we would take our cameras to Whytecliff. We would sit in that spot we sat last time and I would tell you gushingly how much I love you. I would tell you how proud you make me feel. Your art, your connection to the divine, your beautiful smile, your heart full ways. I would insist on holding your hand as I told you so. I wouldn’t want anything at all but your time and we would stay in hopes of a sunset with colour.
I would explain to you the dimensions of your heart from where we all sit. I would explain the way you make people feel. Warm. Laughter. Real. Awake. Maybe I would say nothing at all for a time and just revel in the scent of your hair. Ohhhh your beautiful hair. I would be in awe of the shapes of your face and trace them with my fingers as I’ve watched you for 23 years with hearts in my eyes from its beginning until your eyes would close for the last time.
Night would fall and we would have to face the reality that it was time. Reluctant. Knowing. It would be time to fill the sacred space between you and I with gratitude. Allow love to press against the walls of fear and soften. Allow impermanence to keep change in fluency to prevail against the ‘why you?’ and the ‘loss’. A time to keep the heart ...
Just
Like
Yours.
Open.
I would know the impact would be unmeasurable, and that this life would shift, so I would hold you as close as I could. I let go of letting go. It is resolved that as human, as your mother, letting you go is not an option. I would still panic as I did beside your bed. My heart racing... yours stopping. I would tell you not to be scared. I would tell you you are brave. I would try to be just like you. I would understand that you fought, not only this day but every day, with reverence and awareness beyond your years. Even beyond mine. I would accept that your last day is not our choice but our gift. I would hold you for a while even afterwards, knowing it was the shell of you. This part would be for me and eventually I would break away from conditioning. My next move... unholy nothing. Faith.
I can not subscribe to losing you when your love is still here.
The world is moving a little bit slower. The exhales are longer, the sun is brighter and only the things that really matter... matter. It is as though my life lens has a clearer focus with certainty. I am unable to find anger. I can only see compassion. Yet, the heaviest moments of my heart are now. You have taught me this. That heart of yours still wields the most amazing light, for us all. This is what it means to be at peace.
The other shore.
With Metta,
L.
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