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.

When a parent dies...

The life cycle of a yellow rose. 

Sometimes, life kicks you in the ass, makes you re-evaluate and re-assess, see things, people and places differently...

My father-in-law, Del, took his last breath just after midnight east coast time. My partner Forrest was there, along with other members of the family. Del was diagnosed with throat and lung cancer earlier this spring, but didn't share that news because he was caring for his long-time partner, Dotty, who had Alzheimer's and preceded him in death by just a few weeks.

Del and Forrest's mom Okay divorced when Forrest was just four-years-old. While he and his siblings spent their summers with their dad in the north Georgia mountains, as an adult, Forrest wasn't close to him, despite a solid resemblance, a shared countenance and caustic wit. Del wasn't much of a 'dad' to his first family, never really taking responsibility. When still married to their mom, they moved a lot, as Del was a prospector looking for gold from the deep southeast to northern Alaska. The family story goes: he finally found it in the tourists who pass through Helen, Georgia, the country's first gold rush town. There he opened Duke's Creek Mines, a gold and precious gem panning business, along with the adjacent Heidi Hotel. I met him on two occasions, one of which was a long weekend visit many years ago with several shared meals and conversations. It was clear he was a man of few words, significant intellect, strong opinions, good humor, and a resilience about him that makes his death at 71 seem implausible.

Death is a funny thing no matter who it is that passes from this mortal coil. Funny in that it's the only real constant other than change (even taxes can be evaded...) but yet, it's something most of us don't plan for, don't really talk about, nor even actually expect, for ourselves or others. The death of a parent is often, but not always, devastating. Yet no matter the circumstances, it's one of the more significant changes each of us will experience in our lives; with it comes a different level of complexity, especially if the relationship was complicated or after a lengthy illness.

I'm not presumptuous enough to think I understand someone else's experience, and I certainly can't know what Del's family will go through. But I do know the death of a parent changes us, even if the relationship is strained. We are different. It has the capacity to bring families closer together or sever ties. It can shift our priorities and show us what's important. Mostly, it tends to bring us up-close and personal with our own mortality, our own shortcomings, our own unmet desires and regrets. It can show us, and those close to us, parts of ourselves and each other that weren't previously visible -- like the tenderness Del showed Dot, and unfamiliar or long-denied or hidden feelings that bubble from below the surface.

When my mom died, time stopped. I felt like I had a tattoo that read "mom died" on my forehead, as if this was a rite of passage that had to be marked. In between waves of grief, there's shock (at least, for a death unexpected), which is a useful thing as there are immediate decisions to be made and a laundry list of things to do. It's after all the 'things that must be done' are behind us that the reality sets in and processing begins.

Unless you're firmly in denial and prone to stuffing feelings, that's where introspection really kicks in. I went through many of the grief stages (although I find the traditional definitions of each stage lacking): anger, denial, remorse, sadness, and finally came to acceptance, despite a lingering void. But what often isn't among those official stages about grieving is relief. With her death, my mom was released from her suffering and sadness.

Grief and the time it takes to move through it -- and we do move through -- is different for all of us, but it's something we'll all experience. And from the other side of loss, I know it's worth the journey. Painful experiences can suck beyond comprehension, and many of us try to avoid them, or at least, the feelings that accompany them.

Dive in...  

Without these challenging times, we'd never experience nor understand the full spectrum of love and joy, gain empathy, nor even enjoy those quiet moments of contentment. And I believe those who left their imprint -- good and bad -- are with us always, whether from a spiritual, soul connection or a practical, in-our-DNA perspective; they help us become our best selves, even if it's "don't do as I did".

Our parents give us life, and while the best of them give us tools for living and help us become healthy, functional adults, some of us get there despite our families. And that's OK. By the time we reach a certain age, no matter our upbringing, we can be grateful, thank them and even acknowledge them for their own shortcomings. We can embrace ourselves and cherish our relationships from a place of compassion, connection and love that we may not have been able to before, even as we pine for what might have been had those relationships been different. And with their transition from this earthly plane, we can take deeper meaning from the lessons they proffered, perhaps unwittingly, and honor them by living our own lives fully, and being present to our daily experience.

Del never knew what great kids he had. Every one of them is a talented, creative, funny and extremely capable adult. I don't know if he had the depth of understanding to feel that loss. That might be the saddest thing of all.

Getting over the hump: Grace and gratitude

Forget-me-nots in the garden

Today is Mother's Day. I have previously written that I'm not very sentimental about that. But I forget that May can be a challenging month for me, full of emotionally charged events - of which Mother's Day is just one small piece.

I rode my bike to the cemetery today. It's a small, lovely, peaceful little spot in a neighborhood just north of me, exactly what a cemetery should be -- gravel roads, many trees, benches for sitting, fragrant flowers and shrubs, with markers of varying shapes and sizes acknowledging those who've gone on. Many of my family members are buried here, and in 2000, when my mom died, I placed a headstone here in her honor and scattered some of her remains. I honor her today when I take care of myself by doing things like riding my bike. She and so many others died relatively young, of illnesses that today are largely preventable. I am doing my best. And I know she would want that. 

May is bittersweet. The anniversary of mom's death is May 19. This month also commemorates more fateful dates: the end of my marriage, my move back to Seattle, a hit-and-run that totaled my car and nearly totaled me (I am so blessed). May 10 was my dad's birthday - a symbolic date I knew as a child even though I didn't know him. And, on a high note, it's the month I fell in love with Forrest. 

So it's with grace and gratitude that I get through May. I've had a few rough weeks, and I haven't been able to get to the heart of what's up with me. Frustrations at work, personal irritations... feeling like my life is a little smaller than usual in key areas... some of it appropriate dissatisfaction. But I amplify these minor irritations by twisting them in my own head... and forgetting the real, underlying emotional reasons. Awareness is usually the first step to clarity, and the ride to the cemetery was the reminder I needed.

Grief is a funny thing; it can show up at interesting times in interesting ways, and I'm not sure it ever fully goes away. We heal, and scar tissue fades over time, but the memory remains.

While I do wish other mothers well on this date, I am not very forthcoming about offering it. I'm not the one posting a photo of my mom on Facebook, or wishing my friends who are mothers or the mothers of my friends a good day. Not because I don't care. Were I to describe how I feel when I see those posts, I think it would largely be numb. I cannot summon emotion.

So today, I recognize how grateful I am for the many gifts in my world, including the grace to have compassion for myself and save some space during a time when I need a little more than usual.