signs of spring

"Whatever occurs in the confused mind is regarded as the path. Everything is workable. It is a fearless proclamation, the lion's roar."
Trungpa Rinpoche, quoted by Pema Chodron, "When Things Fall Apart"

The daffodils are in bloom. This is a treasure. As one of my favorite flowers, favored because it was my Granny's favorite, I thrill to their upright yellow goodness. They are also a cold weather bloom, planted in late-fall to endure a long winter's nap. So, very few daffies down south, unless you store them in the freezer.

Although there are none here at my house, there are plenty in the neighborhood. My head swivels around turns taking in as many of them as I can. My dad probably has some at his place, but I haven't been there since last Sunday, and it seems that they've popped in the last few days.

He planted more than 200 bulbs around the property, daffodils and tulips. They were planned to bloom in rotation, so that there's continual color and growth throughout the spring. I say here once again how much I love my dad and thank him for all he's given me - life and love and an appreciation for the seasons and the routine and work necessary for growth. We have an odd relationship though, close yet distant. I know he loves me but I stopped getting hugs around the time that I grew breasts. (That's gotta be weird for a father.)

Nonetheless, he was - and remains - my first hero, and I am here - on Long Island, the land of my frustrated and angst-ridden youth - because of my mother's recent death and a need, for both of us, to be close - though in truth, it seems that he needs me less than I need him. He, after all, has a life here. A job, a home, a community. And company. He's dating. Casually, cautiously, and playfully. Good for him.

Me - not so much. I'm lonely. But I think that's okay. I started this period of solitude in Mississippi and I've carried it up North. I no longer question the why or the way. I just accept it (The Path is the Goal). I trust that this is where I need to be. I know that there is no other place I could live comfortably but for a fifteen-minute drive to my father's house; my own discomfort is secondary and necessary. My mother's death has brought me here. I believe that she - by dying - saved my life.

I miss her tremendously.

I am angry that I am here and she is not. I was planning my return to come back and care for her, to take her to the doctor, to walk the dog, to take her shopping, and make dinner according to her direction. I wanted to sit by her side and get all the stories again, this time in writing. To laugh at her jokes and play scrabble - losing again and again to her better strategy (despite my better vocabulary). It is cruel that I am here without her, she who wanted more than anything to be close to me, and yet did her best to push me away - with relentless criticism and subtle and not-so-subtle bullying. She wanted to be the hero, but stomped on top of me (and Dad) to earn that spot. Queen of the misbegotten hill.

And yet, I love her. I miss her. I learned, later in life, with therapy and through divorce, how to give her what she never got - a listening ear, kudos for work well done, praise and hurrahs, and company. I learned to let her in and discovered that she was happy to be the also-ran as long as she was close to the winner (that would be me). I learned that she was proud of me, me of the unconventional life. That even though she was shocked - Shocked! - by some of my choices (such as keeping my own name when I married - "Why even get married?" she asked), she bragged about me to her friends and coworkers and looked each day to the weather in whatever town I lived. Our best times together were when she came to visit and lived for a brief period in her daughter's life and reaped the just awards (I was liked. I learned it from her; she was equally - and more so - likeable). I remember best our lunch at Commander's Palace in 2003; our table was striped with green notifying all of our VIP status. We were treated accordingly. My mother had her first (and probably last) Mint Julep. She felt fancy, but over-served. Half-way through, she dimmed it down with more soda.

What's a woman to do when she loses her mother before she's done with her mother? My mother was difficult. There was nothing easy about her. I hold no romance here. She's caused me more angst and therapist fees than one ought to pay. But I have learned to understand and be kind to her own troubles and costs and I am angry and hurt that I do not get the chance to make full recompense.

Shortly before her death, over Christmas 2007, I learned how to hold her without seeking such comfort for myself. My role was to just be there. To hold her. And it was easy. She was small and bony then. As I now know, she was just a few weeks before death. She was tiny. It was nothing to close her up into my arms, to wrap myself around her and whisper love into her ears. We closed ourselves in blankets and before the TV. We sat there together.

The last time I touched her was in the hospital. She was doped up (down) on morphine, and largely unresponsive. I asked the doctor to take her off, to give me my mother back, to give me a connection. Let me see her, let her see me. I wanted to see her eyes, focused. I wanted to know that she knows that I am here. I was over-ruled. By the doctor and by my dad. My mother's stroke was so bad that giving her consciousness meant her distress. In other words, she freaked out. Better to keep her sedated. She is not suffering.

But what about me? I am suffering. And I mean no harm. Give her to me. I am good for her. Give her to me. Give me my mother. Let me look into her eyes and let me tell her that I love her. Let me tell her that I am here and I am sorry. Let me tell her that I forgive all. Let me tell her that I am grateful.

Instead, I got nothing. Just a body. No soul. I held her the best that I could hoping that she heard and felt me. I talked to her and told her I loved her. I massaged her hands and brushed her hair. I alerted the nurses when she seemed distressed. I watched as the doctor gave her what proved to be the final shot of morphine. I held one hand as she died, while my father held the other. We loved her unto death.

And so I meet another Spring of my life, mother-less, grieving, and lonely. I have not been writing here because my days have been difficult and repetitive. I have had nothing to say worth saying (except in my private journals - and I strive to complain there daily). I do have a job and a lovely one. It's another restaurant gig, and a good one, at a fancy French joint, but due to the depressing economy, business is slow. But it is a good environment for me, and I am most grateful for one particular coworker who is teaching me lessons about grace, kindness, and forgiveness. I am not a godly person, but she (my coworker) makes me wonder about god. I'm asking maybe. I'm wondering if I need not be so alone.