By now, I get that grief is predictably unpredictable. So why am I still surprised by the way it surprises me?
Last week, when my publishing consultant, Lindy, sent me four possible book covers, I went from elation to tears, within moments. Seeing those covers evoked an avalanche of emotion, followed by a tizzy of activity as I jumped into tweaking (not twerking!) mode.
I’m thankful that Lindy made time for me, in the midst of a busy Friday afternoon. Upcoming jury duty was cramping my style, as was missing Mom, and Lindy delivered. When I saw the new options, the very next day, I felt confused, bereft, a little embarrassed. She’d made the changes I’d requested and, while they perfectly captured the journaling I’d done, something was missing.
What if I added more words, I wondered, to explain what I meant by Living Is for Living, Mom’s words I’d scribbled down and heeded in her care. Lindy worked her magic and sent another set of covers, pronto. Nope, I realized, it wasn’t more words that were needed, it was something else.
Daughter, cousin and spouse conversations ensued. They helped me clarify: this book called for a more elegant, finished presentation, like Mom, who liked squared corners and straight lines. Which reminded me of the comfort I felt as a kid, seeing her dressed for work—professional, confident, and approachable too. Who knew a font could capture all that?
Which brought me back around to one of the original covers… Lindy’s no dummy : )
Walking the dogs in the midst of this, the cat lurking near, I realized that grief, mine at least, resembles our feisty pack: fragile and resilient, loyal and gritty, devoted and needy, watchful and fluffy, playful and unapologetic, enduring and sweet, ferocious and funny, too. Much of the time they surround me peacefully, keeping me patient company. Then they get all riled up and make lots of noise, the knock on the door real or not. I’ve finally learned that, if I thank them for keeping me safe, they quiet down a lot more quickly than when I start barking too.
While the care of this pack asks much of me, as does feeling my grief, it brings me endless love and connection, and it gets me to laugh and to walk, which never fail to lift my eyes and my spirits.
I see today that this process of choosing a cover for my book is another opportunity to uncover where I stand, almost three years out, in caring for Mom: more than ever, I want to do her justice. Choosing a cover is also another opportunity to recover—to feel what I feel, to reach for support, to choose my path forward, and to keep on walking, like Mom would do.
Photo, wording, style, and font selected, now I just gotta choose a background color. No need to rush, I’m right where I need to be.
