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.

The depths of winter, and gratitude

Now over a year since I've posted here, what a year it was. Knowing that the only constant is change doesn't make a lot of change an easy experience. Not that change is easy; even desired change has it's challenges, and undesired change can be downright frightening, or at least, uncomfortable.

The Northwest is now in the depths of winter, but thankfully, the temperatures here don't compare to those back east. I count my blessings. In fact, our recent cold front came with gorgeous sunny days, so it's hard to complain. We had snow at Christmas -- a first in many years. Life stands more still when it snows, and everything grows quiet.

The first day of winter is bittersweet, with dreary winter weather a promise for the months ahead, but the days also grow longer and the nights become shorter. We won't notice this at first; the days still feel short, and when the skies are gray, it feels darker still. Sometimes, the weather is a reflection of my mood. Or my mood is a reflection? It's hard to tell which came first, but I know my moods are lighter when the skies are lighter.

Letting go of gloom, or... 

...gloomsday gratitude? :)

Today was a mixed bag of rain and gray skies, with a few sun breaks. I graciously and gratefully worked from home, in my cozy basement office, looking out at the evergreen flora. No makeup, no bra, sweats and slippers. Now that's a picture, and one I wouldn't post.

And, grateful is where it's at. When the gloom sets in, gratitude is a way out. Being in service to others is another, and the two are intertwined. Helping someone can be a reminder of all I have to be grateful for. For the many gifts I and so many in my world are fortunate to have. When doing for others isn't an option, though, I try to stop what I'm doing and remember all my good.

Nightmare, a younger version

Some days, my good is as simple as my statement above -- working from home, in comfort. I have a job. I have a home. How lucky am I? Not everyone can say that. I'm warm. I'm dry. I have more clothes than I can wear, more food than I can reasonably eat at one time. I have hot water and hot beverages.

Yes, 2017 was a year of change. We lost the last of our three cats, my precious white Nightmare, to cancer at just over 18. Lucky for him, he didn't know he was sick until the last week or so of his little life. He was a big presence, with paws that won't easily be filled. Forrest and I then escaped the emptiness with a cross-country drive, filling the void with landscapes.

Grand Canyon, cross-country drive

We saw family and friends, and explored destinations from Death Valley to New Orleans to the Gulf Coast. Forrest lost one of his oldest friends to suicide. I got a job, and then another job, meeting and working with amazing people. And I continued freelancing and coaching. We sailed to islands, hiked, and enjoyed a lot of togetherness that we no longer take for granted. I spent an entire week with 12 family members I only loosely know--but love--on a cruise ship to and from Alaska. And that's just part of it.

Hubbard Glacier, Alaska

I count my blessings. Every day, I write those things I'm grateful for and send them off to my gratitude partner to be witnessed. Sometimes I'm grateful for the lessons in the journey, those things I'm not proud of, the things that hurt, or anger, or give me pause. Sometimes, it's the little things -- I got through my day with no harm done. Every day, I give thanks I'm alive, I'm healthy, I have a partner who loves me, a home, family, people who care. I have learned a lot about myself over the last couple years, with un- and under-employment, and ongoing challenges. Strife is a good teacher. Even my birthday, which every year I have higher hopes for, is my opportunity to dive deep into the depths, and understand myself better. New insights, new awareness, more self-compassion.

Yes, gratitude. I'm so grateful to be here. So grateful to be able to write here. So grateful for the journey, even in the depths of winter.