Keep it simple

Letting Go, for real

November 6, 2022

As Lindy and I volley last looks at Living Is for Living: a Caregiver’s Story, I wrestle the same old same old: what if my words upset someone, what if there’s a glaring mistake, what if I’m oversharing, what if Mom wouldn’t like what I wrote?

“In the full realization of our repetitiveness, the best thing is to stop saying anything for a while, and in that saying nothing, something begins to break down and opens us up.”—David Whyte, September 2022 Series: Crossing the Unknown Sea, Life and Work as a Pilgrimage of Identity, Session 2

Heeding Whyte’s words, I quiet my anxious mind and observe:

a dear friend, in reference to caring for her father, texts: “I remember you asking me, ‘how do I know when [Mom] is ready to let go’, and I told you ‘you will know because it will just happen naturally'”;

another dear friend, in the midst of caring for her brother, asks about the book and when I share my concerns, offers the warmest of hugs;

searching Mom’s things for the key to her safety deposit box, I discover Henry Van Dyke’s I Am Standing Upon the Seashore, describing a sailboat reaching the horizon: “Gone from my sight. That is all“; and

I meet my brother Dave for breakfast and, still keyless, we make up fun stories about what we might find inside Mom’s box before he asks me about the book and advises me to let it go.

I do realize, all this writing has been a way I’ve continued to care for Mom, even after her death. This book has given me space to visit and revisit our lifetime together; it has helped me to grieve, process, and heal. It’s reminded me to laugh.

What if this next stage, publishing, is less about setting myself off for new horizons, and more about sending off the lessons I’ve learned? What if letting go is really more about handing over, and in so doing, setting free? What if I choose love, not fear? What if it’s all going to be okay?

As Van Dyke concludes: “Her diminished size is in me—not in her. And, just at the moment when someone says, “There, she is gone,” there are other eyes watching her coming, and other voices ready to take up the glad shout, “Here she comes!”

Launching Lala, and me

October 16, 2022

Yesterday was three years since Mom died. It’s been a nostalgic month, with Dad and Grammy’s birthdays to start, followed by Mother Nature’s plentiful reminders of Mom’s last stretch—bright sun, pounding surf, brisk winds, and yellow leaves, every where I turn.

To Dad’s “when my number’s up, fill my dinghy up with gin and push me out to sea” came Mom’s “living is for living” which meant a reluctance to push off when there was still fun to be had, as evidenced by the friendships she formed with every caregiver who came through our door.

While Dad died true to form, so did Mom, who moved on, me and the animals at her side, the sun just breaking the horizon, reminiscent of this excerpt from Katherine Tynan Hinkson’s Shades Are Up, a poem Mom had chosen to share at her funeral:

Some morning I shall rise from sleep,

When all the house is still and dark.

I shall steal down and find my ship

By the dim quayside, and embark…

As I work this month with publishing consultant Lindy, finishing the last details of my caregiving story, it’s been hard to finalize, to let go, for fear of making a mistake, choosing the wrong words, misrepresenting, over-stepping. I’m sure the timing is no coincidence.

“There are times when we know we should move but we don’t even know how to push our boat out from the shoreline on which we are marooned…Part of our ability to go is to understand what we’re missing…”—David Whyte, September 2022 Series: Crossing the Unknown Sea, Life and Work as a Pilgrimage of Identity, Session 3.

While I’m not quite sure what I’m missing, I am curious where all this time and energy freed up will land me next. I take heart in another excerpt from Shades are Up:

…The winds shall bear me safe and kind…

With love… to lead me by the hand.

This morning, in the early hours, I recall Kristin Neff’s self-compassion practice which ChiME advisor Katie taught me in the days following Mom’s death:

“1. This is a moment of suffering”—I feel stressed about finalizing Living Is for Living, about being so vulnerable.

“2. Suffering is a part of life”—Other people feel stressed too, on the verge of putting themselves out there in what feel like big ways.

I lay my hands on my heart.

“3. May I be kind to myself”—I love and accept myself unconditionally. I’ve got this.

(Dr. Kristin Neff, Co-Founder of the Center for Mindful Self-Compassion, https://self-compassion.org/exercise-2-self-compassion-break/).

It’s time to shove off. Let’s do this.

Laughter in Grief – showing up the best we can and finding hope amidst loss

April 23, 2020

Little did Dad know when he made up Douglas the Rabbit stories for us kids, that someday I’d share them with my kids; little did I know that the stories I wrote down to remember Dad after he died, would someday entertain Mom, when she could no longer get out of bed.