L, M
My mom was a big note writer. Of course this started before computers and phones so I literally mean notes. On paper. She’d leave a note for me after school saying “Be home around 5” or “Don’t forget your long sleeved shirt for softball today!” Usually she signed her notes with “Love, Mom”, but over the years it became abbreviated to “L, M.” Hence, the title.
It’s been awhile since I’ve written something for BMH. It’s not because my grief has been absent, but rather life has been life-ing.
With Christmas coming up, the void of my mom’s absence always seems bigger. She had a way of making things so much brighter. Growing up, I think of making a million cookies with her or with her mom. I think of wrapping presents or putting all of the tinsel on the tree. Even shoveling our long driveway felt like a game on a white Christmas. I miss those memories. And also, this time three years ago was the last time my whole family was together. It was when she said the words “I’m dying, I won’t be here much longer.” Even though I knew this—even though I had felt this coming for some time—for her to acknowledge it was, well, heartstopping. At the same time, I could tell she was in a state of acceptance. She was so happy to have her kids together one last time. And, of course, her grandkids. She was at peace. And she was beaming with love and pride, even when she struggled to do anything else. That Christmas will always be a bittersweet memory.
When I started this community, I didn’t know all of what to expect. I gave myself permission to go at whatever pace felt right and I also gave myself permission to change what it is or could be. A core element of this community will always be around grief. And, as I evolve, it is also about doing the hard shit. Any of the hard shit. All of the hard shit.
I notice the way we float through life sometimes like a ribbon in the breeze. Sometimes it feels simple and sweet, other times it feels defeating and really cold. I’m usually a glass-half-full kind of person. It’s been harder these days. And I think that’s okay. Sometimes we aren’t ready to find the silver lining. Sometimes we have to sit in the pit of despair, anger, sadness—whatever it is—and just feel. I guess all of that to say—if you’re there too, I see you. I hope you give yourself permission to just be. To get yourself a little treat. To call in sick. To say no. To stay in bed. To do whatever your soul is needing. Strength is still doing all of those things. Some day, in some way, we will find our way out of the pit. We’ll wipe our faces that are filled with dirt, we’ll stand a little taller, and we’ll move our feet forward, one at a time.
If today is not that day, don’t be too hard on yourself.
Sending you love.
