Wow, do you have a way with words, Caroline. I felt this writing deep in my bones as I was transported to a number of similar experiences. Thank you for the invitation to revisit those this morning. Lately, the intersection of joy and grief occurs most often with my sweet, 77-year-old mother, who has a progressive form of dementia and is increasingly non-verbal. We are fortunate to be exceedingly close in both the emotional and geographical senses, so I see her numerous times per week. Regardless of my emotional state (usually harried, cursing under my breath, and a bit late), I experience a profound internal shift the moment I step into my parent's home; all the familiar sounds, scents, and sights are all right there to greet me. (This is my childhood home, but it remains my proverbial one, too.) Some days, I am her daughter and others, I am now her "best friend." But I've come to see that both titles are the privilege of a lifetime. We often walk around the block or sit in her backyard, admiring her beloved birds. All my mother ever knows now is the present moment, which is the ultimate gift for an often-disembodied and overwhelmed mid-life woman/wife/mother like me. Her mindfulness and joy are contagious. As I sit beside her, the sun on my back and a lump in my throat, I attempt to memorize every detail of this woman who has lived with faith and gratitude as her guideposts, no matter the curveballs. She has always been my safe harbor, and I remind myself that our most powerful conversations have never involved much talking anyway. She remains my greatest teacher, even now, as we stare at a feeder with our knees touching, both of us lost and found in the moment. I feel uplifted, not burdened or resentful, as I add "caregiver" to my already lengthy list of roles, for these intersections of joy and grief remain with me long after I've pulled out of my parent's driveway. They hold my hand as I continue walking into the unknown, and they encourage me to notice the birds a bit more wherever I go. Small moments where I am invited to no longer feel the weight of who I have to be and instead relish the joy of simply being.
Thank you for sharing this lovely comment. I could almost feel what it is like to sit with your mother. She sounds like an incredible woman and you, at this stage (which I am nearing) of care giver, mother, daughter, so many other roles I don't know about, but likely relate to. What a gift, when we can take a moment and sit with our experience. What is more, when we can experience being human together, as mother and daughter, loved and beloved.
I really fell in. Because those moments, these ones where -"I can finally take a minute to just be a person and not a doing something. Not a mom. Not a wife. Not a woman in recovery. Just a me."
Just a me. When we go back to those places from childhood, it feels easier to slip into the "just a me" part of us. All of us, yet no one else's.
This piece reminded me of an experience I had not long ago while vacationing with my family. We stopped into a restaurant and as we were waiting to be seated at our table, I looked up and saw a painting on the wall that was in my dining room of my childhood home. It's of a fisherman and his daughter in a rowboat. I hadn't seen this particular painting in decades, and it had such a visceral effect on me! I almost couldn't move. Wild how time and place can just stampede back together again.
Oh, what a beautiful moment, sitting face to face with that painted reminder. This moment I write about in my last book felt very much the same. I was struck by grief and at the same time overcome with joy for the girl, now a woman, I am.
Wow, do you have a way with words, Caroline. I felt this writing deep in my bones as I was transported to a number of similar experiences. Thank you for the invitation to revisit those this morning. Lately, the intersection of joy and grief occurs most often with my sweet, 77-year-old mother, who has a progressive form of dementia and is increasingly non-verbal. We are fortunate to be exceedingly close in both the emotional and geographical senses, so I see her numerous times per week. Regardless of my emotional state (usually harried, cursing under my breath, and a bit late), I experience a profound internal shift the moment I step into my parent's home; all the familiar sounds, scents, and sights are all right there to greet me. (This is my childhood home, but it remains my proverbial one, too.) Some days, I am her daughter and others, I am now her "best friend." But I've come to see that both titles are the privilege of a lifetime. We often walk around the block or sit in her backyard, admiring her beloved birds. All my mother ever knows now is the present moment, which is the ultimate gift for an often-disembodied and overwhelmed mid-life woman/wife/mother like me. Her mindfulness and joy are contagious. As I sit beside her, the sun on my back and a lump in my throat, I attempt to memorize every detail of this woman who has lived with faith and gratitude as her guideposts, no matter the curveballs. She has always been my safe harbor, and I remind myself that our most powerful conversations have never involved much talking anyway. She remains my greatest teacher, even now, as we stare at a feeder with our knees touching, both of us lost and found in the moment. I feel uplifted, not burdened or resentful, as I add "caregiver" to my already lengthy list of roles, for these intersections of joy and grief remain with me long after I've pulled out of my parent's driveway. They hold my hand as I continue walking into the unknown, and they encourage me to notice the birds a bit more wherever I go. Small moments where I am invited to no longer feel the weight of who I have to be and instead relish the joy of simply being.
Thank you for sharing this lovely comment. I could almost feel what it is like to sit with your mother. She sounds like an incredible woman and you, at this stage (which I am nearing) of care giver, mother, daughter, so many other roles I don't know about, but likely relate to. What a gift, when we can take a moment and sit with our experience. What is more, when we can experience being human together, as mother and daughter, loved and beloved.
Gah, this is gorgeous writing, Caroline!
I really fell in. Because those moments, these ones where -"I can finally take a minute to just be a person and not a doing something. Not a mom. Not a wife. Not a woman in recovery. Just a me."
Just a me. When we go back to those places from childhood, it feels easier to slip into the "just a me" part of us. All of us, yet no one else's.
This piece reminded me of an experience I had not long ago while vacationing with my family. We stopped into a restaurant and as we were waiting to be seated at our table, I looked up and saw a painting on the wall that was in my dining room of my childhood home. It's of a fisherman and his daughter in a rowboat. I hadn't seen this particular painting in decades, and it had such a visceral effect on me! I almost couldn't move. Wild how time and place can just stampede back together again.
Oh, what a beautiful moment, sitting face to face with that painted reminder. This moment I write about in my last book felt very much the same. I was struck by grief and at the same time overcome with joy for the girl, now a woman, I am.
I’m so proud of you, Honey <3
Awww, my #1 fan. Thanks for supporting 🙏🏼❤️
Beautifully written!
So grateful you connected with this 🙏🏼