Small wonders

Much of what’s been finding me this winter is the need for rest. I started this community knowing that I didn’t know the whole path yet. When I was developing the idea, I wanted everything to be perfect. Then, I received some wise advise from a very wise coach that encouraged me to give myself permission to change my mind, change the plan, change the path. Instead of staying “I need to post every week” and “I need to be super active on Instagram”, it was this reframing that allowed me to think “let it be what it will be.”

So, what I’ve been giving myself permission for lately has been rest. Not writing, not creating, not posting a lot. I’m here, but like many of you reading this, I’ve been in the thick of my grief. It’s almost been a year since my mom died. In so many ways, it seems like it didn’t happen at all, that she’s still here. In other ways it seems like it’s been so long. This year has been a blur, to say the least. She passed. We packed up all of her things. We planned her memorial. Life kept going. Then Christmas was here and all I wanted to do was hit “fast forward.”

My spouse and I took a trip to Colorado the week after Christmas. It was in the spirit of skipping Christmas, but also in the energy of trying something new. It turns out it was exactly what I needed. However, I’d be lying if I said the trip wasn’t an intentional distraction from reality.

Nature has always been healing for me. From the colors of fall, to the waves in the water, to the snow covered tree tops, it is all so calming. In our adventure to a little mountain town, my mom was everywhere. She was in the gift shops, with cardinal decorations. She was on the menus of restaurants with Haägen-Dazs ice cream. She was along the snowy streets with a bench that said “Polly’s.” She was in the night sky with a million stars and that wee baby moon. I know she is with me. And that kind of comfort is so warming and so…odd. Of course I want to feel her near and know she sends me little messages. But, I also want her here. I wanted her here for Christmas. I wanted her here when I had a hard day. I wanted her here for my nieces and my siblings. I just want my mom.

I’m scared for this next stretch of dark winter where I feel that void of her absence. Since she passed, the dark of winter feels like a new level of dark. After she was gone I would shower by candlelight and just cry. I hear her there. I also feel her absence there. And it’s like all grief is—a cocktail of nostolgia and fiction. Daydreaming of what could have been and longing for what was.

So many things I replay in my mind—moments we shared or words we said. I wish I had all of those moments stored so I could watch them play back over and over. Let me tell you, the highlight reel is good. My mom lived with zest and an appetite for fun (and also for chocolate). Even though now, in the distance, I can hear the whisper of your voice, the words are not there. The rhymes do not rhyme. The songs are unsung. There is an emptiness that feels too big right now.

Wherever you’re reading this from, I see you. I see you in the depths of whatever you’re grieving. And I hope you give yourself permission to do what you need to do for you. For the forseeable future, I’ll be here, on my couch, resting.

xo