how are you, today?
Sheryl Sandberg encourages us to ask people in mourning, "How are you, today?" By emphasizing today, we acknowledge the bumpy nature of grief.
Sometimes, I think, asking, "How are you, right now...in this very moment?" may be even more appropriate because one minute you are fine washing the dishes, thinking to yourself about the awkward but funny comment your child made earlier (maybe you should stop referring to private parts by their correct names), and the next, you find yourself in a puddle of your own creation wondering what on earth to do next.
It has been three weeks since my mom died of metastatic breast cancer. Three weeks wrapped up in what feels simultaneously like 24 hours and 3 months. I knew this time would come and often wondered what it would feel like when it did. In the time forever marked as after. That picture was taken after my mom died. That was the kids' first birthday after we lost her.
The further I get away from her death, the more I feel like I am leaving the precious and intimately sacred space where time stands still and you are entitled, expected and even encouraged to be all consumed by the enormity of the loss. Friends and family wrap you up in a warm and protective cocoon. Thank God for that cocoon.
But time soldiers on. And eventually, you have to emerge leaving the safe and nourishing shelter as a completely different creature than the the one you were before you started the unwelcome but necessary journey.
You are a changed being now. You will never be the same. You start to acclimate slowly. You return home or the people you love go home. Work, school, plans, and chores resume and sometimes the familiarity is comforting and sometimes it just feels wrong. No, no, no this can't be, I can't be laughing and talking about Halloween costumes, my mother just died! In her house! And we were there. And it was intense and beautiful and heartbreaking but beautiful. Sometimes. Sometimes it was and is just plain sad.
I have been creating quiet, restful moments during the day. Grief requires this. And these are the moments when I relish the relationship my mom and I built and revel in the one we are still building.
As Thomas Merton said, "Silence allows many sounds to reach awareness that otherwise would be unheard."
In this fruitful silence, I notice one palm tree swaying to it's own breezy music while all of the other trees stand still. I hear the peck on the glass and turn to see a yellow finch trying to fly through the window. I am comforted, soothed.
Sometimes I talk to her out loud. Or I'll say something to my kids that sounds just like her. Like the other day, as my son played piano in the dark, I walked into the room, flipped on the light switch and said, "A little light on the subject?" How many times over the years did I hear her utter that expression? I love her expressions with their touch of humor and reliability.
As I feel the presence of my mom, I also feel more and more like her. And I remember the times when she would laugh and say to no one in particular, "I sound just like my mother". Her mother, my grandmother, Nana, whom I also adored, still adore, and miss.
This week, my oldest turned 11 and my youngest daughter turned two. Our silly and sassy little caboose with brown hair, brown eyes, and a killer grin makes everyone in the room smile. Just like her grandma did.
When my brother said the day after my mom's service that he knew he would be o.k., my sunny friend Derek enthusiastically said something to the effect of, "Well that is something!" And it is. Because sometimes it is enough to know that we are growing in the right direction. That in this moment, no matter how bumpy and how much we ache for the people we love, we know they are o.k, and ultimately, we will be too.