Friday, August 19, 2011
Spyhouse Coffee, Hennepin Ave.
Minneapolis

All week, as I’ve been savoring the last vestiges of summer with my two little monkeys, my head has been filled with great, profound, inspiring ideas.  This morning I finally had a few hours to lay it down and write.  Guess what I did?  Cleaned out my inbox, cleaned out the random papers from my commuter bag, went through my mail, dinked around on Facebook (the vast wasteland of Time), and filled a few pages of my journal.  Now I have about 30 minutes to squish all of my great ideas into this post.

Ain’t happening.

But I do have a little morsel of one moment to share with you:

Yesterday evening after dinner, as the late-summer shadows stretched long across Washburn Avenue, Oliver, Lucy, and I walked down the sidewalk to Bigfoot Park.  It’s actually called Triangle Park, but we’ve called it Bigfoot Park ever since Oliver and Lucy were two and four and I brought them down to that park to step into the huge footprint-shaped hole that I told them was from Bigfoot.  The hole has since been filled and the park landscaped.  But it’s still Bigfoot Park to us.

Lucy and I held hands and talked about things like fashion and flowers and ant hills while Oliver walked ahead in his own little reverie, head held high, swooping his remote control airplane through the air while making whooshing sounds.

The park is a grassy knoll surrounded by raised garden beds that Rob helped Tree Trust plant two summers ago, perfect for flying kites, playing kickball, and having picnics on a summer day.  At one point I looked up from where Lucy was coloring and I was writing in my journal, and watched Oliver’s silhouette against the blue, pink, and orange of the setting sun, flying his airplane.

I sat there thinking, “I want to remember this moment exactly how it is, forever.”  I stared into that moment as I sat there, trying to imprint it on my brain, so years from now, I can come back to it, just as it was.

One moment.  One precious moment worth everything.

“Instructions for living a life:
Pay attention.
Be astonished.
Tell about it.”
— Mary Oliver

But it’s impossible.  Because every single day is filled with these tiny little moments that mean everything in the world, and our gray matter just can’t keep up with all of the glory this life brings.

So we take these moments and infuse them with our love and attention.  Because it is these simple moments that are our riches.  It is these simple moments that make a life.

Friday, August 5, 2011
Bob’s Java Hut
Minneapolis

Right now I am sitting at a picnic table outside Bob’s with a stuffy head next to two men who are talking about a motorcycle accident, and between eavesdropping and trying to organize how I am going to write this post and ride my bike home by 11:30, my head is swimming.

Anyway.

Today would have been my mom’s 63rd birthday.

How can I and why would I try to squeeze the enormity of my thoughts and emotions about this day into a 20-minute blog post?  I don’t know.  One word at a time.  We’ll see how this goes.

My mother was an alcoholic.  At the time of her death, we were “estranged,” which is a very clinical and arid way of saying I couldn’t talk to my mother anymore while she lived in her alcohol-induced haze.  I couldn’t listen to her lies.  I couldn’t hear her blurry speech over the phone.  Couldn’t watch her formerly petite body bloat.  Couldn’t witness her pain.  Couldn’t beg, coax, scream, wish, or pray that she would quit drinking and reclaim her life so that I could have a mom who would help guide me through the twists and turns of Life.

I had to save my life.  Because the weight of hers was pulling me under and I was drowning.

I was 21 when my therapist suggested I “let her go,” in order to save myself.  This advice struck me as callous and impossible.  How can I “let go” of my own mother when I could see she was in such great pain?  Plus, what if she died while I was “letting go?”

“Well, your mother makes her own choices in life.  You are her daughter.  She is the adult.  You only have power over your own life.  She will likely have to hit rock bottom before she can begin to heal herself, and you letting her go will bring her one step closer to that point.”

I could not, at that point, let go.  The mere thought made my stomach twist into a tight knot.  Still does.

Years passed.  My mom went in and out of treatment, and I went in and out of hope.  Finally, at 26, I understood what my therapist meant, understood that I had no power over her life. Over the phone, I told my mom I could not have a relationship with her while she was drinking.  While I said it, I felt like someone had hijacked my mouth and sent those words through my lips.

Five years later, my biggest fear came to be: my mom dropped dead in a hospital in Florida from a pulmonary embolism.  She was 55 year old.  My mother.  Mom.

The finality was and is shocking.

It has now been eight years.  The cycle of life has continued to turn, and now I am a mother.  As I have evolved through this privilege of motherhood, I realize, both despite and because of her mistakes, my mom gave me profound gifts–courage and fierce determination.

When I made the decision to let her go, I simultaneously made the decision to jump on the horse of life, grab the reins, and ride it with everything I was made of.  Witnessing her fear taught me to find my courage–courage to live, courage to reach into the Unknown, and determination to give voice to my dreams.

The pain and confusion I experienced through my mother’s life nudged–no shoved–me to take up my pen and begin to write, to draw out the confusion, to know and understand myself, to reflect on my life, to live it with intention, and to look at myself and my life with honesty.

Her life was a potent lesson that we each have a choice–to either let life live us, or to live this life.  My mother’s life gave me the impetus and reason to choose the latter.

The caged bird sings
with a fearful trill
of things unknown
but longed for still
and his tune is heard
on the distant hill
for the caged bird
sings of freedom.
-Maya Angelou

My mother was an unsung woman.  But where her song left off, I grabbed it, opened my throat, and continued to sing, in honor of her, in honor of me.

I am so grateful for her, my mom, for this precious life, for the gifts she gave me.