Wouldn’t it be
great if there were a lost and found box for life? You could occasionally
peruse its contents to locate “things” you’d lost along the way: “Oh, look!
It’s my self-esteem! I can’t remember the last time I saw that” or “Hey! Look
at those life goals! I’d completely forgotten they existed!” Unfortunately,
that isn’t the case. While we might find a pair of sunglasses or a phone in a
state similar to that in which we lost them, it’s unlikely that we ever find
these other intangible things—if we find them, that is—in quite the same
condition.
Around here, 2013
has been a year of profound loss as I said goodbye to my mother, and it’s been extraordinarily
difficult, over the past few weeks, to see beyond that heartache. The thought of entering a new year without my
mother is unfathomable. I can’t help but think of all the things that she’ll
miss. I keep expecting her to call. I keep picking up my phone to text her the
latest pictures of Bennett’s antics. Most days, I’m still waiting for the
weight of my mother’s absence to sink in, the loss suspended somewhere just out
of grasp. Other days, however, it knocks me over and takes my breath away.
But it has also
been a year of equally profound discovery, and I would be remiss if I didn’t let myself acknowledge those
things that, in my mother’s absence, have sprung up quietly, dissipated suddenly
or simply ceased to matter. In
some ways, I’ve grown up occupying the negative space
around my mother. I’ve spent time trying to shape myself around her, in
relation to her, against her. My choices, though they’ve been mine, have always
found her at their center in some way, wondering if she’d be angry or pleased, disappointed
or proud. Like any tiger mom with *real* skills, she always claimed
that the pressure I felt to “perform” or “succeed” was somehow a thing of my
own creation, and sometimes, I actually bought into that. Sometimes, she
actually bought into to that. Despair and loss, however, have a way of bringing
us face to face with those things hidden in the otherwise unfathomable depths
of ourselves. During those last few months together, she began the process of
making space for me. It was an uncomfortable and disconcerting experience for
someone so used to being constrained by the shape of another person’s desires
and demands. Gone were the caveats and qualifications. Gone were the
insurmountable mountains of her expectations. And eventually, of course, she
was gone altogether.
Losing my mother
has felt very much like a void that no amount of time can fill. But lately,
finding no resistance in that space that she once occupied, I’ve begun to
discover the potential for a kind of fullness or wholeness. What have I kept
back? What have I denied or written off for fear that it wouldn’t be
enough…that I wouldn’t be enough? This is what she offered me in those last
months. After a lifetime of “buts” and “if onlys,” she said simply: “you are
enough.” My mother can’t be replaced, and I’ll never stop missing her. But the
funny thing about absence is that it always, inevitably, makes room for
something new. She understood that as she chipped away at the hard lines of
herself. She’s given me space to grow into myself more fully, to see around
those things—be they hers, or mine—that took up so much room.
People say that
“time heals all wounds.” I’ve begun to think, however, about the way that it is
time, itself, that wounds us with its relentlessness. So many of us spend our
time looking back, planning for the things to come and trying to keep up with
the everyday. There’s never time enough, money enough or peace enough to assess
the damage incurred daily. Certainly, there’s even less time to reflect on the
ways in which things wear on us year after year. We patch ourselves up, push
things aside and power through…at least I have. And suddenly we find that we’ve lost whole parts of ourselves, whole histories, whole lifetimes of
desires. No, what’s lost can’t always be found, but as I enter 2014, I’m
fortunate enough to have found some time. The hard work will be accepting it
without guilt or shame, without pressure to perform in some way, without
buzzwords like “idleness” or “privilege” compelling me to fill my time
endlessly and frantically. Instead, I’ll try to spend some time breathing into
that space of being “enough.” Perhaps I’ll rifle through that box of old
selves, discarding things that no longer fit, exploring things that might be
worth trying on. Whatever it is, after a long season of loss, of losing, and of feeling lost, I welcome this season of discovery, of finding and of being found.
I love this and always look forward to reading what you write.
ReplyDeleteThanks, Amy. I hope this year brings good things your way, as well.
ReplyDelete