Enough

In five days, it will be 11 months since my mom died. I've been motherless for nearly a year. 

As with many other truly difficult things in my life, it hasn't gotten easier, but it's gotten less hard...most days.

On the good days, I can answer someone who compliments my dead mother's purse with a simple, "Thank you," instead of having to tell them it was hers.

On the hard days, I tear up because I can't text her about the 45-minute conversation I had with my son about "anvelopes" and how they can have "one deer baby in their lives, just one, because that's all that God will allow. After that, they only have anvelopes." And by conversation, I mean that he told me about this great discovery of his for 45-minutes straight.  And I didn't get to tell her about it and laugh, and laugh.

On the really hard days, I face a complicated blend of joy and sadness.  I felt it when my son actually performed at his holiday performance.  He has a history of...not performing.  And there he was, after waiting patiently for over an hour for his class to perform, up on the stage, singing, and doing the gestures, and smiling. 

And she didn't get to see it.  

This year has been painful, joyous, nourishing, incredible. It has been a year in a life.

I've let a lot go.

Side gigs and small businesses.  The Facebook App. "Building a Brand" (whatever that even means, anymore). 

I've realized where my focus should rest.

I keep focusing on nourishing myself, body, spirit, and soul.  I dedicate time to my mental and physical health. With distractions aside, I've become (or hope I have become...or am in the process of becoming) a better wife, mother, daughter, and friend.

I have realized a lot of what I am not.

I am not the writer who can tune in daily or twice a week, or...on any regular schedule.

I am not the writer who refers back to old journals. In fact, a couple of months ago, I took a bag of my adolescent journals and had them shredded.  I let it all go.

Along the way, I've learned a bit more about what I am.

I am the writer who writes, in my mind, at 3 a.m., awake in my bed, often snuggling the five-year-old who has more or less sneaked in. 

I am the writer who has forgotten most of the writing by the time I wake up.

I am the writer who writes in my head, as a meditation, as a prayer. And by the time I've woken, I've bled myself dry.

I give what I can, when I can. And that will have to be enough.

It's been a strange 11 months.  I don't know what Mama would think of how I've handled it. 

I hope she would say that I am enough.

On Gratitude: Let Them Help You

Let people help you.

Make sure you ask for help.

Let me know if there's anything I can do.

In the minutes, hours, and days since my mother's death, I've had these words rolling around in my mind.

We're okay.

People are doing too much.

My husband feels ready to move back into our normal flow, into making our own dinners.  I'm not quite there yet, and so, I am grateful for the meal train that keeps moving, for the texts, messages, posts, cards, that keep coming my way.

My mom drilled into me that thank you cards make society function.

As of the day of her death, as far as I'd gotten with thank you cards for CHRISTMAS was...to buy the cards.

I had decided to give myself grace this year, to not write them. My life has begun, again, to overwhelm me, and I have to let some things go, bit by bit, if I'm to survive this with any bit of my sanity intact.

Part of me wonders if my mom is shaking her head at me, because thank you cards matter. The rest of me knows that she understands. 

Do what you have to.

Don't let the little stuff get to you.

And other choice language.

I need grace right now, and I have to give it to myself, too.

While I might find the process of writing post-funeral thank you cards cathartic, I have decided to write out my gratitude here, instead.

You wanted to help. Thank you for that.

You made me let you help. Thank you for that.

You helped in 1,000 different ways.

You texted me.

You called me.

You messaged me.

You posted on Facebook or Instagram.

You shared stories, condolences, good wishes, connections to your own life.

You reached out once, twice, thirty times to make sure that I am managing through this all okay.

You understand my relationship with my mom and know that the feelings of loss will come in waves.

You sent flowers, well-thought out and important flowers.

You shopped to help fund her memorial scholarship fund.

You prepared our home.

You flew across the country to remember her and support us.

You came to her viewing.

You snuck in the back of the funeral with your baby.

You cared for my children and entertained them while I dealt with the sorrow, the pain, the organizing.

You held my hand.

You walked beside me.

You made us food.

In each gesture, no matter the size, you loved me.

I will always remember your kindness and support.

Thank you. 

DO EVERYTHING BETTER

Yes, I shouted the title of this post.

After I posted about how my mom buys me books, she mailed me some books.  Amazing how that works.

The first one I received, and the first one I picked up, is Bittersweet by Shauna Niequist. I really need to meet Shauna.  Almost every word in the book feels painfully familiar.  I will probably have posts to write about this book, but for today, it's about priorities.

Shauna writes, "The grandest seduction of all is the myth that DOING EVERYTHING BETTER gets us where we want to be..."  And, oh, how I fall into that trap, on daily basis, really.  I look at my list of things to accomplish, my areas where I need to improve, my weaknesses, my challenges and failings.

The only clear solution?

DO EVERYTHING BETTER.

We have already established that I cannot find an easy solution to my feelings of overwhelming panic.

So?

I will DO EVERYTHING BETTER.

Except. No.

I can't.

I have stretched my time and talents to the max, and I have nothing better left to give.

DO LESS.

I look at my middle school students, struggling under the demanding weight of the curriculum I implemented. I am responsible when they drown under the weight of a project's details, when their presentations lack...quality.  I tell them they must bear the responsibility, but then I look at what I've designed and determine that I need to...DO EVERYTHING BETTER.

I can't.

I can't just do it all and better.

I will do less.

I will design projects with far fewer fancy trappings, with the hope that my students will learn more.

I will simplify holiday presents, with the hope that my family and friends truly believe that the thought really does count.

I will breathe more and worry less.

And, in the end, maybe it will all turn out better.

Here's hoping.