Author: mykitchentable2017

As I sit in the early morning hours drinking my coffee and watching the sunrise through the trees – by the way it’s fabulous, striking pink and orange feathering out to lavender and finally a perfect light blue sky above – I am struck once again with thoughts about the purpose of life. I know, I know. Shut up Karen. Everyone struggles with this elusive mystery. I wonder though how many people get stuck in it. In the muddy slogging mire that is this age old question. There are times when I just can’t drag myself out, let it go and be here now. For all the talk in this blog about letting shit go and living in the moment, I still get stuck wondering about what purpose I could possibly have here.

Of course, I am grateful for so much and know that if all I do is leave behind three incredible, smart, kind and thoughtful children to keep walking forward, then I’ve done a great thing. Still. Is that enough? Shouldn’t I be doing something really amazing? Something that will stand the test of time? Like discovering what infinity really means or some mathematical equation like Euler’s identity?

Some people say our purpose is to live a good life. To be kind and to help others. I get this, I really do. And I try to live this way. But honestly there are a few Karens that want to slap that pollyanna in the head and shout “fuck off, there must be more”.

Then there are people who have great faith in the afterlife. I really envy those people. They must get so much comfort from the thought that there is something else for each of us in the great beyond. I so wish I had that. But I just don’t.

All of this probably comes from my rounding the bend on an age I never imagined I’d reach. It just seems so impossible. And it is very hard to accept. When friends – one in particular who shall remain nameless but who surely knows who she is – talk about how to celebrate this birthday and how it’ll be so much fun, I put my hands over my ears and start chanting “LALALALALALALALALALA”.

Each day – and I mean literally – EACH DAY – I count down my remaining months left in this decade.  It’s like a ticking time bomb. Ridiculous I know because smart, well-adjusted people say it’s only a number. Age is all about how you feel not how many years you’ve been pacing the planet. I guess I accept this on some level. But for me, more often than not, my concentration is on what happens next and when that “next” will arrive.

There is a good side to this obsession. It makes me focus on what I am doing, how I am treating people, how much I give and how much I take. I really don’t let each day go by unaware of my longevity, my contribution or my lack thereof. Despite the anxiety it might provoke, I do think that self-awareness is a positive thing – even in darkness.

And then.

WAIT. HOLD UP. PUT ON THE BRAKES. Now this . . . .

I started writing this post about a month ago. Then all of a sudden we were smacked upside the head with “the corona”. All thoughts of the meaning of life and my reaching a milestone age have been shoved aside for thoughts more like: “WTF is happening? Are we seriously living through a pandemic? How could this happen? All things closed? No travel – anywhere, anytime – except to the grocery store? No visiting friends even those around the block?  Waiting in line, 6 feet apart, to get into a grocery store and then having to go only one-way down the aisle only to discover that there’s no toilet paper?

Wearing a mask? Gloves?  WTF?” I could go on and on but anyone reading this is living it too so I could probably have stopped at WTF.

It is without a doubt a surreal time. I often say I feel like I’m living in an F-rated movie, one that cannot possibly mirror real life. And then I see another masked face and know this is our new reality. At least for the time being.

Most days I feel like I’m living in a bubble. Sure most of my family is with me each in their own mini-bubbles and so far we are all well – a fact for which I am eternally grateful. However, this bubble gets smaller and smaller every damn day. In fact, some days I feel like I am sticking to the sides walking around in a suit of cellophane plastic wrap. Trying to push the edges away only to have them snap back all gooey and slimy with hand sanitizer that never dries. In this bubble, I wander the rooms of my house. Changing locations – and of course my outfit – to feel like I’m actually moving forward and am present in a new and different moment. I guess this helps overcome the “Groundhog Day” phenomenon we are all experiencing.

My children are engaging in virtual learning. Thank God they are good, independent learners because if I had to home school them I’m pretty sure there would be a lot of door slamming and screaming “I told you that’s not how we were told to do it!” All bets are off with actual learning in “the corona”. In fact, I watched a great video by Glennon Doyle (author of Untamed) – who by the way I highly recommend following. The message was something like: “Pre-corona TV time is limited to an hour or maybe 2 a day. You know, you don’t want brain dead children. Now, while in “the corona”, TV time is a 7 hour gig. Reading lessons occur when you close-caption the TV. Math is “count the number of raisins in your lunch”. Honestly, Doyle is a breath of fresh air and right on the money in my world. TV is king in “the corona”. Netflix and Michelob Ultra Gold are my new best friends. #truth

One bright spot for me is that I have had to focus on running again. After being injured this year, I’ve focused more on cycling – with my Sisters. Sorry, I had to say it. Now since I can’t cycle – with my Sisters – I am trying to get my running feet, lungs, stride, and head back. Although this has provided some relief, even then I can’t avoid “the corona” since whenever I am about to pass by someone they move to the other side of the street. Surely that’s a little much? We are outside right?

And then there are the people wearing masks when they are alone in their car. What? Some of these things I just don’t get.

At the same time I understand and respect that we are all so out of our own reality that everything is up for grabs and whatever we think keeps us corona-free goes. #nojudgment

And let’s not forget the news. OMG. I have tried hard to avoid watching it but it is like a train wreck – I can’t stop myself. I guess I’m hoping for something like “OK everyone.  It’s over. All good. Everyone can go back to their lives and be normal again.” So far, that is not the message. In fact, the “message” is confusing at best. I’ve written about some political thoughts before so anyone who’s read this blog, or knows me at all, knows that I am not a fan of this president. I can’t even capitalize the word for him. Anyway, the daily 4 hour press conferences are often laughable. The only real information is from Fauchi and Birx.  I have great respect for these guys. They are smart. They have been through similar epidemics. I trust them. On a pie chart they definitely get the biggest piece for intelligence based confidence building. Although, even they seem to mostly be repeating what we should all know by now. Stay home and wash your hands. Still I watch. Tapping my fingers hoping for a glimmer of levity and freedom.

Speaking of pie charts, often their emphasis on data and models makes me sleepy.  Maybe thats why I watch. To help me sleep. This is actually a good point since every day I wait for 7pm so I can get my pjs on and patiently wait for bedtime which is now only about an hour away.  Legit.

So, what’s my point you ask? Good question. “The corona” has created a crack in the otherwise solid lead weight I carry around. The one that screams “How can I be this old? How much time is left? What then? What am I supposed to be doing here?”. I could be very astute and say: “This time in “the corona” is a gift. It has given me time to ponder life and reset myself in it.”  However, that my friends would be pushing my luck. I am far too cynical for that B.S. But I will say that a glimmer of something like “enough already with the cry for the meaning of life” has been exposed.

The truth is, we are all in the same boat. Or maybe in our own boats traveling down similar rivers. I’ll admit that the boat is a bit shaky right now but it is still floating, moving forward and leaving a ripple of some pretty good stuff behind it. In these ripples I can see a lot. A lot of love, laughter, support, and kindness given and received. These things are beautiful and if that is what I am supposed to be doing while I’m here then that surely is enough.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sister.  I address some of my closest friends as “Sister”.  They are all women of course but none of them are actually my biological sisters.  In fact, I only have one sibling and he’s a boy.  A man.  A man-boy.  Actually, he will forever be frozen in time as my 12-year-old, aviator transition glasses-wearing younger brother with a “bowl” haircut – one that I gave him – using an actual bowl as a guide.

Anyway, my use of the term “Sister” is perplexing to certain people.  And to some, like my children, it is extremely amusing causing them to laugh their heads off.  I am normally a constant source of amusement to them for almost everything I do so this isn’t really unusual.  But in this instance, their amusement sparked something in me.  A need to explain why I use this term with these women.

I guess an easy answer would be that the idea of a “sisterhood” is fairly common in today’s media.  Thelma and Louise,  Sisterhood of the Travelling Pants, Sex in the City, Mama Mia, Bad Moms, and even Charlies Angels hinted at the idea that women supporting women can be the strongest bond some of us will ever have. Many people, mostly men (sorry), just do not get this.  For them, support comes from their job, their sport, their bank account, and their fist-bumping shenanigans.  Even the fist-bumping is more of a joke and an expression of he-manism. Not necessarily support as we Sisters have and give to each other.

This support was never more evident to me than during a recent event that I and my daughter were honored to attend.  The event was an awards dinner at which one of my best Sisters was to receive an award for her business, which was voted the best in our area.  It was a very special night.  Here is my story of this night and its example of sisterhood.

We began together in a limousine.  About 9 of us.  All women who are in one way or another part of this business, either as regular clients, instructors or employees. We were invited to celebrate this amazing feat by attending the awards gala.  We traveled to it in a limousine so we could all be together . . . .

As I sit and scan the car, this is what I see.

Within the walls of this limousine exists a group of women, each with their own story as to why they are there.  Each with vastly different backgrounds.  Each with a character of their very own.  Each with very different lives.  Nonetheless, each of us is like the other in a way that is almost beyond explanation.  It is as if we each have a single thread woven into our individual tapestries that connects us to each other – thread by thread.

As I look around to each of us and listen to our words, I see a center to which each of us is bound, solidly meshing into the roof of the car.  From that center, a strand of something luminous, something sparkly leads to each of us.  For me, this strand represents the love, respect, strength, and support that connects us at our core – in our soul.  I know that at any moment and in any circumstance if I was in need each of these women would come to stand by my side and I would absolutely do the same.

When I say “need” I don’t mean need as in “please I need a cup of coffee”.  I mean the kind of need that only someone who has experienced life’s drama, pain, and uncertainty can understand.  Make no mistake.  We ALL experience these things in life.  It’s just that many of us choose to pass through without much thought or reflection. These women, though, have chosen the more agonizing road of reflection and consequential self-awareness.  These are women who have stood at a crossroad, sometimes for years, and have ultimately had to choose a path, one way or another. Sometimes an easy choice and sometimes an impossible one.  I know this instinctively and without doubt.

This strand that connects us is magical. Sounds a bit corny I know, but it really is.  It is magical in that it happened fortuitously.  It wasn’t created with intention but has risen naturally.  Serendipitously.  And at just the right time.  You can’t tell me that this isn’t magic.

For me, it is a rare circumstance.  This is not to say that I don’t have my very best forever friends.  I am lucky to have a couple of these. Women who came into my life at the right time and who will live forever with me. But this is something different.  It is as if we unknowingly stumbled, especially me since “grace” is not in my vocabulary, into a tribe of Sisters in the most unlikely of ways.  We are all so very different and yet here we sit, together in this limousine, connected to each other.  I am certain that we all know that each of us will have the other’s back no matter what and at a moments notice.

It is really quite remarkable and I leave the limo feeling in awe of them and so lucky to be a part of this Sisterhood. And safe. Maybe this is the best part.  I rarely feel safe and protected in this way.  It is truly a gift.

So to my children, I say giggle away.  But know that my wish for each of you is that you too will find this kind of tribe.  The feeling is unimaginable and empowering.  It ignites strength, power, and breath when you are most in need.  It will save you in immeasurable ways.  Trust me on this.

To my Sisters I say, I am honored and grateful for your presence in my life. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for lifting me up – for anchoring me – for reminding me to breathe . . . .

Labor Day weekend has arrived.  Sadly for me, this means that we are at the end of summer.  This weekend signifies the last hoorah before school kicks into full gear, leaves begin to change color, temperatures cool and the time for hunkering down in front of a fire reins over our lives.  In New Hampshire, this hunkering down will last for about 9 months.  Yes.  That’s what I said – 9 MONTHS.  Once Fall arrives we won’t see warm weather until April or more likely June.  It really is a short summer up here.  But that isn’t what this post is about.  This post is about labor, inspired by this last summer weekend holiday:  Labor Day.

“Labor” is defined in many different ways by many different people.   Within the context of the Holiday, it celebrates the security that arose from the struggle of employees to establish fair and equal rights for all workers.  It celebrates the contribution of workers to the economic and social prosperity of our Country.  The labor movement gave rise to the establishment of unions traditionally organized by workers to protect their rights and safety in the workplace. This is why we celebrate the holiday.

For a mother, labor likely conjures up the intense experience of giving birth – something you never forget.  It elicits memories of joy in creating human life together with the typically agonizing physical process of moving that life from the fluid, safety and warmth of a womb and launching them into the world.

For others, labor simply means working to accomplish something – to make something happen – to work toward a goal.  This is what I think of these days when I consider the word labor.  In many ways, we are all laboring toward a goal each and every day – even if we aren’t aware of it.  This has never been more evident to me.  The last few months have involved a fight to take a giant step forward in my life.  Giant at least for me.  The step forward embodies a moment in my life that is more than just the event toward which I am “laboring”.  The event itself is something most of us will do someday – buy a house.  But in my case, it is so much more than just that.  It follows on the heels of another major life event, so it is somewhat of a continuance of my clawing my way into my next act.  It is the first time I have bought a house on my own – my first major expense – one that is solely mine.  Holy shit Batman.

Needless to say, it has been and continues to be quite a ride.  Beginning with a random look at a somewhat needy property, making the uncertain decision to buy it, moving on to the lovely – and I use the term loosely here – and expressly demeaning experience of financing, only to be elated and joyful at closing.   Sadly, this was almost immediately followed by the realization that “Oh right I guess I’m gutting it then”.  And so it goes . . . .

While I imagine that all this labor will end up feeling like a true labor of love, right now it feels not only onerous but uncomfortable in a way that is, at its core, unsettling.

For me, the notion of being uncomfortable, of feeling out of sorts or somehow that I am out of place, elicits the uncertainty of not really knowing where I belong and if I do seem to belong somewhere – where is it and why there?  In most cases, I am able to let life’s many discomforts ebb and flow without much thought.  But there are times – like now – when there isn’t much flow and there is an awful lot of ebb.  This, of course, immediately kicks Karen4 into gear.  Her anxious darting glances around the Table are almost constant – she is keeping a watchful eye out for whatever lies beneath her next step.  If you have been keeping up with the Karens at the Table, you might suspect that this then leads into Karen5, the bitch.   Surely you’ve seen her.  She looks a little like this . . . .She exists because, of course, this is the way to move out of fear and into a stronger more safe place.  Some call it the “fight” part of fight or flight.  I call it being a bitch to anyone brave enough to be in my path,  And you know who you are.  I will apologize right now to all of you.  I really don’t intend to be so dismissive and brash.  It is really just my way of stomping, or more accurately slogging, forward through difficult emotions desperately trying to escape the discomfort.

Here’s the thing that all this rambling has stirred. What I am learning – very slowly – is that this discomfort might just be a good thing, however exhausting it surely can be.  It certainly keeps rearing its ugly head causing me to react in ways that I’m not always proud of.  But maybe there is a larger point to it.  Maybe I have to learn to be comfortable in my discomfort.  Maybe moving through the discomfort is actually bringing me to a better place. 

At the risk of sounding like a “hippie”, maybe being uncomfortable, laboring over something, will lead to a better understanding of who I am and where I’m going.  Maybe it will bring me “higher”.  You know – sort of like Johnathon Livingston Seagull.  All of his struggle and pain allowed him to reach a higher level of being.  Believe me, I am NOT saying that my discomfort is going to launch me into another state of consciousness or that all this will deposit me at the gates of Buddha’s home.  After all, we are talking about discomfort here, not the Force.  But it is true that we learn from our struggles.  All this discomfort and wigging out might be teaching me to be comfortable in the mess and to know that it is temporary and necessary.  I do think that many times I, usually reluctantly, exit the other side in a stronger, more confident place.  One where I can look back, recognize the path I’ve taken and know that all the weeds I’ve had to plow down to reach the other side were there for a reason.   

Now let me just say that recognizing this is one thing.  The more difficult part for me is letting it happen without destroying everything that matters in my path.  I am most definitely guilty of this.  Karen5 can drive even the most patient person away.  She can cause a complete breakdown in the process and any “higher place” will remain elusive.  And boy can she be mean. . . . .

Notwithstanding winner number 5, I think the lesson here for me is to begin to “let go” and trust the process.  I’m pretty sure I’ve said that in one or another of my posts.
But like a Pavlov’s Dog, I guess I have to have this repeatedly shoved at me to allow myself to be comfortable in my discomfort.  To know that whatever the cause, the discomfort is temporary.  In my more lucid and calm moments, I have this vision of myself clawing through the mud in a dark dank forest but ultimately ending up on a white sandy beach.  Maybe that is the image I need to remember.  The struggle, the climb, the discomfort leads to joy and pride.  Embrace it don’t fight it Karen.  And yes I am talking to all of you.

Put another way, staying within your fear and your discomfort will only serve to make you small and stuck.  But if you allow yourself to step out of it you can become strong and step forward into the person you are meant to be.  Let the discomfort help you to bloom.  Big credit here to one of my fierce sisters @Angie Bloom for this little analogy she, possibly unknowingly, spun out today.  Do yourself a favor and check her out.  She has magic up her sleeves.

So, for now, I will try to embrace the discomfort – the labor.   Know that it will pass and keep my eye on the door that opens to that sandy beach just a little bit more with each grinding step.

 

 

Several years ago, when my kids were probably 15, 9 and 7, I realized that the most important gift I could give them was to know that they would always have each other. That they were indelibly connected and there was nothing anyone could do to change that.  We, their parents, would someday be gone but they would always have each other to lean on.

I tried to impress this on them in many different ways.  Sometimes, yelling, “Why are you fighting?  Don’t you realize that you are all you have?”  Sometimes forcing them to hang out together – just them – when they would really rather be with friends or actually anywhere but there.  And sometimes by just explaining what my interpretation of being a sibling was.  Despite my effort, this never went well.

At some point along the way, I thought of (or maybe heard somewhere) the idea of a “Sib Ship”.  A Ship that is exclusively yours – you and your siblings are the only passengers.  You can never leave this Ship, despite the many travels you will each make independently – the many events that take you through the life that is solely yours.

The thought of being stuck on a Ship with your siblings forever can be a scary one I know.  In fact, when I first trotted it out to my children, eyes were rolled, heads shaken, backs turned and words spoken that indicated they’d rather die than be stuck with each other anywhere.  Nonetheless, I carried on.  Repeating the idea over and over again.

I have a small chalkboard in my kitchen and one day several years ago I wrote: “Remember you are part of a Sib Ship” on it.  Those words have never been erased and proudly mark the entrance to the kitchen.  They have faded a bit and my daughter added a fun little love note to me in her tiny 4 or 5-year-old handwriting, something I’ll never erase either.   But there they are.  A constant reminder to them that this is their most important lot in life.  The lot is this . . . .

This Ship will go through many storms, some worse than others.  It may sometimes run aground, sometimes lallygag through a glass-like, ever calm sea, sometimes be surrounded by sharks and other times sit amongst a pod of sparkling dolphins dancing around them. They will face utter starless dark nights and blindingly sunny days invoking a round of horrifying sunburn.  They will have to endure rain, snow, wind and will likely face a race to empty the Ship of incessant incoming water.  Repairs will need to be made, holes filled, decaying boards replaced, and on and on the list goes.  And through it all, they will really only have each other.  Of course, they will have friends, family, teachers, mentors, bosses – many people in each of their beautiful lives.  But this Ship is the one constant place to which they are anchored and will undoubtedly save them time and time again.

This Sib Ship is where they will always find an answer.  They will find and give love, support, strength, admiration, solace, friendship, pride – you name it.  And most importantly they will not let it sink.  The Ship must be kept afloat no matter what.  No one can jump, be thrown or dragged overboard.  Each remains solidly linked to the Ship and to each other.

There will undoubtedly be events and people that will try to tip them over, divide them.  And sometimes those people may make a little headway.  But when push comes to shove they will be reminded of their exclusivity on this little 3 person Ship.  They will put up their hand, wrap their arms around each other and paddle away.  Safely carrying on.

I write about this today because recently I overheard my now 22, 16 and 14-year-old children fleetingly mentioning “Sib Ship”  in a random conversation.  Honestly, I almost passed out.  I couldn’t believe that any one of them had actually ever heard me.  Had ever really thought about their “siblingness” in this way.   Or had even ever looked at the chalkboard.  I always figured they were laughing it off thinking, “There goes Mom again with some crazy idea meant to make us love each other”.  But no.  They have actually listened and understood what I have been trying to imprint on their hearts and souls for all these years.  As I realized this I started crying and thought, “Ok then.  I’ve done some little thing right and maybe they will all be OK after all”.  Despite the shit that we and everyone else in the world will throw in their way.  They will stumble but they will also know that they have each other and that this is their sanctuary.  They will know that their relation”ship” is the one solid, safe and supportive place that they inhabit solely together and that is immutable.

So, today with this in mind I know that I have done my most important job.  Tomorrow?  Who knows.  But today.  Good for me.

 

 

 

 

Today is a day full of wide-ranging thoughts and complicated emotions.  I am flying to Seattle to join my son for his graduation from college.  I am traveling with his Dad, younger sister, and brother.  That in itself raises a plethora of emotion.  One family unit but each individual bringing a very different version of that family with them.

The irony of this trip is not lost on me.  The emotions we are carrying are many.  There is an abundance of love within each of us for the other.  Each different and also somehow the same.  A parent’s love for their children.  A child’s love for their parents and for each other.  There is disappointment for the way that some circumstances within our family have evolved.  There is anxiety or maybe just anticipation for the coming events.  There is a wistful sadness for a time when this particular family unit was different.  There is likely some anger within one or another of us – maybe all.  And for some of the Karens, there is fear of all sorts of things.  Like not being able to step up and be here now, putting all other emotions aside, or the paralysis that certain overwhelming emotions will undoubtedly bring.

I can see that we are all lost in our own thoughts during this 6-hour flight.  For me, I am immediately reminded of the other trips I made to this college.  The first to visit it with my son.  That was the first time I saw him in action as a young adult.  He was ready to embark on the college journey and it was clear that I was not allowed to join him on the ride.  I don’t mean this to be a bad thing.  It was a natural progression of life that simply meant “this is now my time”.

I remember watching him meet the young man who would be his roommate and first college friend.  One who would continue to be one of his closest buddies throughout.

The next trip was to move him in.  My two favorite memories of this are trying to load all the Bed, Bath and Beyond loot into our small rental car.  There is a great photo of him standing outside the overpacked tiny sedan.
The other memory is my final drive away from the campus, leaving him to start his new adventure.  Him waving goodbye and me trying my hardest to keep my shit together until I was out of range.

There is actually another one one that I will most certainly never forget.  When I made the plane reservations I bought 2 round trip tickets – not remembering that I’d be only 1 on the way back.  As I sat in my seat, the flight attendant announced: “Is there a Jacob Webb on the flight?”   I thought I was going to vomit as I realized what I had done and why the seat beside me was empty.  Another glaring indication of our new lives.

So today as we fly to see him receive the culmination of all his hard work, I am filled with pride and love and not just a little melancholy.

As I sit on the plane these things circle around in my mind like a cyclone.  At the same time, up here at whatever frighteningly high altitude we happen to have reached now, I feel like the cyclone is manageable.  Almost like it might stay up here when we land and my shit will actually be together on the ground.  Or that it is somehow part of a movie and not part of what my smart brain knows is my real life.  It is in many ways absolutely surreal to be making this trip.

The event we are approaching and all that it embodies is one thread in my tapestry that I hadn’t really thought much about until now – not seriously.  It is a thread that I wove in 22 years ago and that has been sparkling ever since.   At the end of this trip, as we fly home it will be knotted in some small way.  It will, of course, remain as one of the most important facets of my life and will probably change color, direction, and density as I go.  It will likely be joined by another thread, or more, at some point but I really, REALLY CANNOT go THERE now . . . .

All of this is surrounded by the reminder that life is fleeting.  So much happens to us in our complicated lives.  As it is happening you think that time is dragging along and that these major crossroads and accomplishments will never come.  At the same time, it all happens in a minute.  All of a sudden everything is dramatically different and you wonder how yesterday he was wearing his Batman costume in the grocery store and today it’s a cap and gown he is sporting proudly across the stage, past the podium to shake hands with his Dean and receive his diploma.

The passage of time is amazingly swift, with events occurring at lightning speed, some purposeful and some not.  No matter the substance, they are fleet of foot.  I am reminded of Jim Croce’s Time in a Bottle.  A cliche I know – a big one so just suck it up, forgive me and read on.  He was really onto something.  If only we could save time in special bottles – bottles we could open again and relive the wonder that sits inside just one more time.  But, of course, we can’t.  We have memories, photos, and videos that will have to suffice.

I wonder how I’ll feel on the ride back.  It is a quick weekend trip and yet so much will have happened.  I hope I remember every minute, every smile, every overwhelming feeling of pride and, yes, every tear, put it all in a bottle that I can put on my shelf and be reminded of day after day.

As with most young children, when I was a young girl I wondered about death and what happens after the moment you leave your body.  My own kids have gone through this curiosity but it passed pretty quickly once we talked about it.  But for me, this “curiosity” has lingered and in some moments has become much more than a mere curiosity.  Instead, it borders on an obsession.  Obsess about something?  Who?  Me?  What a surprise . . . .

Generally speaking, I am not a very religious person.  My family didn’t go to Sunday services and never really “belonged” to a church.  Maybe, in itself, that’s not so unusual.  The more incredulous thing to me now is that my family never discussed death – or much of anything actually.  My parents never ventured into that one aspect of death that we are all so naturally “dying” to know – what happens next.  We were told, of course, that death is a certainty, but not how likely, or unlikely, it might be that some part of us sticks around.  We were left to our own imagination to ponder this.

I have been lucky and have not had to experience death in my very small immediate family until I was an adult. I had my grandparents until their 90’s and my parents until their 80’s. Even aunts and uncles have some pretty serious longevity. Lucky, I know.  But not having to face death personally and really having very little faith, has left me feeling very unsettled. And frightened. I’ve gone from one end of the “belief” spectrum to the other. Thinking that certainly there must be more than this time we have on earth. Not the traditional heaven and hell but some other dimension we might move into. On the other hand, as my step-father’s mother would say: “Nah, we’re just squashed like bugs on the ground and that’s that.”  For me, the lack of scientific evidence of an “afterlife” usually wins out. So long Mr. Ant – it’s been nice knowing you.

Still, I can’t and probably never will be able to let it go. Especially lately. These past few years after losing my parents I have spent considerable time “looking” for them. I’ve exhausted my mind by trying to find some sign that they are still here. Somewhere. Or maybe not here but somehow still around me. I’ve waited for dreams to come, voices to be heard, photos of them to show up without notice, pictures to fall off the walls unexpectedly. You name it. I’ve looked for it. But nothing ever happens. Well, that is not entirely true. Some things have occurred that I have spun into some version of my parents trying to connect with me. Mostly, though with my Dad.

There have been a few times when I have “felt” my Dad near me.  Immediately after his death, I had some things happen that connected me to him. Things that were definitely out of the ordinary. For example, my Dad always called me Rose. One morning as I turned on the car, Bruce Springsteen was on the radio singing “Rosalita”. A very best friend of mine, Sandy, will appreciate this the most. We called that song Rosalita for special ‘best friend’ reasons – it’s really “Rosalita Come out tonight”.  Whatever the real name, this song represented a very special time of life for me.  And I have always associated it with my Dad because he called me Rose.  It is NEVER on the radio anymore. NEVER. Except for that day and a few days within that same time period.  I remember almost having to pull over when it came on.  It was so unusual.  Needless to say, I haven’t heard it since and I likely won’t hear it again. At least not on the radio. . . . . . Dad.

Then the summer after my Dad’s death, my brother and I took our kids to Truro for our annual week’s vacation. The first day we were sitting on the patio in the backyard, which had a hill of grass and weeds rising above it. It was overgrown and left to be wild. But in the middle, there were 2 lonely roses.  Just two.  No others in the whole field.  Again. . . . Dad.

These are just two, probably silly, examples of me trying to connect peculiar things to my Dad. I know, I know. Big deal. Most normal people would say that this is coincidence. Bruce Springsteen will always be on the radio. And beach roses grow wild all over the New England coast. They are probably right. But still . . . .

It’s puzzling to me that it is my Dad who I think about and miss most often. I loved him very much but we really weren’t that close until later in his life. He was a “provider dad” when we were young. He worked a lot and when home usually did house things like mowing the lawn, working a vegetable garden, building model ships, watching the Green Bay Packers. He wasn’t a hands-on dad like so many are today. And he was a strict, measured man. We knew he loved us but honestly, we were mostly scared of him. Not for any threatening reason but in the way that kids are scared to cross the path of the parent who is the primary disciplinarian. So, it sometimes astounds me to see how much I think about him.  How much I look for him.

It is a different story with my Mom.  She and I were always very close. For better or for worse, she was my best friend for most of my life. Always there. Always in touch. Always ready to pick up the shattered pieces of my life when I needed her.

So, I often wonder why I don’t think about her, miss her or look for her as much as I do with my Dad.  It just doesn’t make sense.

Then, this past weekend came and I can say that I experienced some very strange things. I am no fool and can be quite the skeptic but these things threw me. I am sure most anyone can mask these things as coincidence but they have somehow started a shift in me.

My Mom had dementia, maybe Alzheimer’s maybe not – it doesn’t really matter.  Either way, it is an unforgiving, horrible disease – for her and for us. She spent the last 5 or so years of her life in an assisted living facility and finally a nursing home.  The first assisted living facility was a small new one about 20 minutes from where I live.  They were wonderful people.  Because it was just revving up they took her in – as they did with everyone – as their own.  She, of course, being my mother, hated it most of the time.  But she did love the owners – a young military man, his fiance, and their golden retriever.  I believe they loved her despite the anger that the disease sometimes brought out in her.

My Mom could find humor in anything and this worked to establish relationships even at this difficult time in her life.  She always said that if you didn’t laugh you’d be crying most of the time so why not find humor when you can.  And she was pretty good at that right up until the end.  I think it made the disease easier for her and those around her and am thankful for that.

In any event, because there were only a few residents at the start they made it a priority to get to know them and their families.  Since my children and I were really the only ones around for my Mom they took us in as well.  When the time came for her to move to a nursing home they made it an easy and somewhat seamless transition.  As normal as it can be, that is.  I have not thought about that facility or those people much since she’s been gone.  It has been easier for me to retreat to the past when she was still fully my Mom.  And then . . . .

Yesterday I was sitting at home looking out a window and, out of the blue, my Mom popped into my head.  I started missing her and wondering where she was.  Then I went down the rabbit hole and couldn’t stop thinking about her life, her death, her “momness”.  This naturally precipitated my ever-present wonder about where we go from here – if anywhere.  It just seems so impossible that this life is the end of the line.  But then again, where else would we be?  These thoughts lingered with me all day.

That evening I was in a restaurant enjoying a cocktail when a man came around to our end of the bar and asked if anyone had the seats next to us.  He was unmistakenly familiar to me.  It took me a minute and then I remembered.  He was the young military man who owned that first independent living facility.  This was shocking to me.  I have NEVER seen him locally before.  In fact, I had never seen him anywhere but at the facility.

I froze for a few minutes wondering “WTF” – what are they doing HERE?  Ultimately, I put my big girl pants on and asked him if he was who I thought he was and the answer was yes.  He remembered my Mom but hadn’t known about her death.  We talked for just a minute but it gave me a feeling that this interaction was no coincidence.  We left first and as we did he leaned over and said how sorry he was to hear about “Barb”.  Only those who really knew her called her that so I knew he had remembered her.

I wouldn’t say that this area of my world is “small”.  It’s certainly no NYC but it is a mid-sized City where you could go for days without seeing your neighbors. So it was particularly strange to suddenly see this man,  Especially, following on the heels of my atypical thoughts about my Mom earlier that day.  And then . . . .

That night I had a dream about her.  As I said before, I have never dreamed about my parents and it has always upset me. Another silly wish for confirmation that they are still here. Obviously, I imagine that they must come to us in dreams. I am just unlucky and am missing that hormone or just don’t remember them.  But this time I did.  In this dream, we were shopping. Of course we were, what else?  And I was looking at owl earrings.  My Mom was obsessed with owls – she had them everywhere in every form.  Stuffed animals, jewelry, photos, you name it.  In the dream, my Mom was across the store checking out and watching me. When I looked up she smiled and nodded.  I woke up crying and feeling like she must have been here. . . .

Now for the finale.  Every night while putting us to bed my Mom would take the string of her nightgown and tickle our noses saying that this was our medicine for a safe and good night’s sleep.  It was silly but made us laugh and I have always remembered it.  The other night someone did that to me.  What?  No one but Mom has ever done anything remotely like – or as silly as – this before.  I had to snap my head around and say “why in the world would you do that”.  The answer was “I don’t know.”  And that was that. . . . .Mom.

These things have haunted me every minute since they occurred.  I feel like my world has shifted in some very subtle way.  Maybe it’s coincidence, maybe it’s me reaching for the impossible, maybe it’s the moon in retrograde.  Or maybe it’s Mom.  Today I’m choosing Mom.