Being with what is

My mom, Anelda, 1960s. 

I have come to a place of peace in my life, despite circumstances. Or maybe because of circumstances. While our current reality is hard in many ways, it's not the hardest thing I've ever done.

I come to this place honestly—this place of peace and mindfulness, of relative comfort with uncertainty. Today I feel like writing a bit about my journey because I'm sad today—knowing this is a place I occasionally visit but don't stay.

Today is Mother's Day. 

I write this today for anyone who's ever felt alone. For those whose mothers are gone, for those who didn't have a mother figure in their lives, or for those with no children of their own.  

My mother left this mortal plane 20 years ago next week on May 19. While she had been ill for several years, she was maintaining and doing OK. We were getting into a new groove, as she'd recently moved into assisted living. So when I returned home from a morning run and got the call, I felt like I'd run into a wall. Hard. Not yet, it's too soon. 

In hindsight, I am proud of my mother for living as long as she did, despite dying at 64. The youngest of four children, she was unplanned—an accident—and felt unwanted throughout her life. When her oldest sister died at 48, my grandmother was inconsolable. My mother was never the same; now, she was also the recipient of my grandmother's spite.  

Family matters...  

Still in my formative years, with my aunt and grandfather gone, we moved into the family home to care for my grandmother, who was paralyzed on her left side from a stroke. She graciously died three years later, and despite an end to the misery, I found myself unhappy and alone. With mom working every day, and no adults around, I went from a well-mannered, thoughtful kid, to a rebellious, self-destructive teenager.  

My mom was a single mom when it wasn't socially accepted; my dad died when I was two, and I didn't know his family. My dad was the love of my mom's life, and I'm not sure that sentiment was returned. (By the way, today would also have been his birthday.)

My grandfather, Ben.
(mid-1920/30?)

During those earliest years, there were many family gatherings—no siblings, but grandparents, aunts, uncles, great aunts and uncles, first cousins, cousins of cousins, and cousins once and twice removed. Holidays and harvests and many family funerals—funerals which resulted in fewer and fewer family gatherings. 

From abandonment to independence 

So my friends became my family, for better or worse. I attracted those on the same destructive path. We were a generation with absent parents, latch-key kids. Hindsight being a brilliant teacher, I see the impacts, from an abandonment mindset that impacted my early marriage, to later self-reliance and fierce independence. 

We are both always, and never, alone

So today I write for those who feel alone. I understand. I felt alone for much of my life. I was alone for much of my life. I even made sure I was alone, unconsciously pushing away anyone who cared—just in case they planned to leave.    

I rarely feel alone now because I have learned to be here for myself, above all else. Because in the end, I'm all I've got, and I'm here for me. I spent my single years building my resilience, learning to love and care for myself.   

Now, I'm fortunate to be with a man who chose to grow with me, even with a rocky (and long-distance) start. We, too, have an important date this month: 24 years together on May 18. This wasn't a given. A therapist once said our wounds recognized each other. The odds were against us—to come together in a healthy, interdependent relationship was not expected nor even anticipated. And yet, what we created will endure, because (with help) we learned to care for ourselves so we can care for each other. 

We learn from our mothers, intentionally or not

I still miss my mom. Always. We didn't have the easiest relationship, and yet, we grew to appreciate each other. She did what she was able to given the resources she had, which were few. Throughout it all, it was always just the two of us... me and mom. I know she loved me. 

Growing up, I wanted a mother I could be proud of, and I am. I'm proud because she found a way to survive despite it all. She offered words of wisdom that, while seeming less than adequate as a kid, now serve me well, like trusting my instincts and using my better judgment. From her, I also learned resilience and determination. A therapist once asked if I was angry at her. I'm not, although I am sometimes sad. But mostly, I feel gratitude and compassion.  

To honor her, today and any day, I take care of myself, including giving myself grace. Because I know she wanted me to have a good life.

I write this today because we are each on a journey, and we do this alone. Finding our place and being OK with "alone" is essential. No matter who we have, or don't have, in our lives, we have to show up for ourselves. 

Life is a continual journey to grow and learn. Pain is part of it. But through it all, we get better, stronger, and more fully human. The more we accept ourselves and our path, the easier it becomes to change our minds, our beliefs, our experience, and ultimately our lives. 

As my mother said so frequently, this too shall pass. 



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The art and practice of forgiveness

Roses are the flowers of love,
a true love stronger than thorns. 
Forgiveness is the ultimate
act of love. 

Forgiveness is one of the hardest things we do, along with self-compassion. Forgiveness isn't about forgetting, or letting someone off the proverbial hook. But it is about letting go, and creating space for peace of mind. 

Forgiveness also isn't about doing something for someone else; while it is a gift to them, it's an even bigger gift to yourself. 

Practicing forgiveness

I had an experience last weekend that took me by surprise, and triggered an emotional response that I in no way expected. 

So now, I'm trying to find space within myself to forgive: my friend, who's grieving a major loss and lashed out in anger, and myself, for not anticipating that something I said could be received in a way I hadn't intended, and for my teary and completely befuddled and reactive response. I believe fully that the few words I chose were said with no intent to minimize or take away from her in-the-moment experience. And, that's how they landed.     

...Holding space

Holding space for someone isn't easy. It's being present and allowing what is to just be. It's stillness, understanding, grace, and getting our egos out of the way. It's also forgiveness. 

As Amy Wright Glenn writes in Holding Space, On Loving, Dying and Letting Go, we fear holding space in part because we don't want to say the wrong thing. "We don't want to add to the pain and suffering." Of course we don't. I certainly didn't. And yet, even though my words came from love, and while in no way meant to add to or even ease suffering, they were heard in ways I didn't and couldn't predict.  

Under normal circumstances, my friend would assume positive intent... (the only kind of assumption we should ever make, by the way, and one we should make often), but grieving such a loss isn't a normal circumstance. 

Letting go...

Surrender. Forgive. Let go. Those are the words that keep coming up for me as I process my own experience this last weekend. We all do the best we can in any given circumstance with the knowledge and capability we have. I know this to be true, in this case for her and for me; I also know "one's best" may be different every day, every moment, and that not everyone will see one's best in the same same way.  

Relationships are truly the hardest things we do, and there are times when I want to throw up my hands and say, "I'm done!" and isolate like my mother did. But that's not the answer. 

Practicing presence

Show up. Listen. Witness. That's what we do for the grief-stricken. I did those things, as well as cried, held, and honestly said few words.  

I'm not a therapist, and I know better than to wear my coaching hat when not asked. I showed up as a caring friend and nothing more. And yet, my few words were interpreted as the wrong words, words that apparently felt invalidating and unsupportive of her feelings and her need to be present with them, pushing her along before she was ready. 

I know myself well enough to know I wouldn't invalidate or not support. We must go through our experience, and the more we can dive in, bathe in it, breathe it in, the more meaningful and powerful it will be for us. It's necessary—and yes, it's necessary for healing. 

Because we do heal from loss and grief. 

And while loss stays with us until we, too, say goodbye to the mortal plane, it won't always be our daily moment-by-moment experience—hard as that may be to hear when we're right there in it. We must stay in those depths for as long as it takes. There is no timeline for grief, and there are no shortcuts. The one caveat—if after a period of time (for many, it's typically one to two years), we're still overcome with sadness and can't find joy in any part of our lives, we may need to get help from a skilled outside source.  


The tension of opposites...

There is both beauty and anguish in grief. I know this from personal experience; I've had many losses throughout my life—most of my immediate family, many extended family members, and some of my closest friends have died too young, lost to disease, drugs, depression, and accidents. In my earlier days, I endured huge abandonment issues that still show up on my very worst days. 

What I know most of all is how grief shows up differently for all of us. We each have our own process, and it's even different each time. There is no pushing through. We must feel what we feel, because there are consequences if we don't. 

So... we must give ourselves and those we love a lot of grace, and the room to make mistakes—we must hold space for and forgive again, and again, and again. Because dammit, there is no great love without great loss. 

Onward. 

If you like this post, or this blog resonates with you in any way, please feel free to share it, comment below, or send me a message. I'm also available for one-on-one coaching—you can find me here.

Practicing impermanence

Callas are symbols of both rebirth
and death. They die back each year,
but the next year, they're stronger,
more beautiful, and more plentiful
than the year before. 

I am reminded this month of life's impermanence. Although I believe we are all energy, and energy can't be created or destroyed and only changes form, as humans on this mortal plane, we are impermanent. 

So as in life, so as in death.  

As humans, we are ever-changing, moment-by-moment, with every breath. As humans, we attach identity and meaning, but we choose these, either consciously or unconsciously. 

Our circumstances are also impermanent. And this is all good news.  

May is a month of anniversaries for me: the week after Mother's Day is the anniversary of my mom's death—this year marks 19 years. Her sister, who preceded her in death by several years, also left her earthly body in May. There are more. 

I currently have friends who just lost or are about to lose their closest relationships—one whose father recently transitioned, another whose parents are nearing their final days, and another whose date with death is literally planned through a MAID, or Medical Assistance in Death. It's not an easy time for many. 


The gift of presence


Death is hard for those who are left behind. 

On the same side of anguish, however, is presence. Death changes us, marks us, and shifts our perspective, reminding us of our own impermanence. Which makes today, our present moment, that much more meaningful and precious. 

On the other side of anguish is gratitude—for the moment, for our current experience, and for the future we still get to create. For the memories and gifts of those who left. 

On the other side of loss is forgiveness—for words unsaid, deeds undone, and grace not given. 

Parallel to pain is beauty—without pain, we cannot experience joy, happiness, contentment, nor peace. 

Perspective...

Physical loss is real, however the gifts that accompany that loss never leave us. We gain perspective. We grow appreciation. We soften over time as memories fade but feelings remain. We gain compassion and empathy, and are more likely to see others from a widened point of view.  

And, just as we are impermanent, so are our circumstances. There are other losses in my life right now. Changes at work and home, with friends and family. 

Change has many benefits... 

Impermanence serves us. We are not stuck. We can change how we think about our experience, change our response, and see our circumstances through a new lens.  

While loss of loved ones is truly one of the hardest things ever, I will always be grateful for change. Change is hopeful. Change is interesting, bringing meaning, substance and expansiveness from which we grow and learn. I wouldn't want to be the person I was in my youth, or even 20 years ago. Ugh! I am SO grateful for change. I have gained wisdom and experience that only comes with age and change. 

Good, bad, or otherwise, change happens, and our best option, for our highest and greatest good, is to find our way to peace with that. We must go through—there is no shortcut. If you're struggling with change, or the idea of impermanence, Buddhist sage Pema Chodron may be the preeminent authority and her foundation has many useful resources. 

Embrace what is...

We must embrace the anguish, the bittersweet experience that engulfs all loss. Mourn what was. Miss our loved ones. And trust that on the other side, life has its sweet rewards. There are still precious memories to make. Experiences to have. People to meet. I love yous to say. We will grow through loss, gain much, and love ourselves and each other that much more for it.  

Without impermanence, there would be no life.  


If you like this post, or this blog resonates with you in any way, please feel free to share it, comment below, or send me a message. I'm also available for one-on-one coaching—you can find me here.