My husband and I went to brunch on Sunday morning. We found a little diner where everyone seemed to know each other, except us. It almost felt like we were intruding on their private party. We watched the incoming and outgoing tides of hand shakes, shoulder slaps, and waves.
In a nearby booth sat a woman with two children. A small toddler sat in a high chair, smiling at everyone and feeding scrambled egg to the furniture and floor around her rather than to herself. An older girl (maybe 10) sat quietly eating her breakfast, paging through an "American Girl Doll" catalog, and watching all the customers stop to coo at the baby girl. I eyed the woman a few times, trying to determine if she were a young grandmother or a mature mother.
When their breakfast had ended, the older girl got out of their booth. I never heard the lady ask the older girl to do anything. I suppose her actions were her own. The big sister started using her hands to sweep up the scrambled egg that her baby sister had pushed to the floor. Gently and thoroughly she gathered the pieces and piled them on the dirty dishes. I watched her and wondered. Most children that age would probably have had a fit if someone had asked them to clean up after someone else. Most children would not have thought to do it at all without being asked by someone. It was such a simple act, but I realized she was not only cleaning up after her little sister, but also making less work for the staff during a busy breakfast shift.
I had already planned my Sunday activity for my return home. We have a new headboard arriving soon for our master bedroom. (This will be installed so I can have something on which to lean while recovering after surgery.) In order for the new furniture to fit our small room, we have to rearrange furniture. This meant cleaning and sorting 15 years worth of clothing and collectibles and clutter. I spent hours looking at things and having to decide whether to keep, donate, or trash each piece. With my pending hysterectomy, I know that I am the person who has to decide the fate of my belongings. There will be no heirs to have that assignment in years to come.
My childhood home still sits unoccupied in my old hometown. Dad has been gone since February of this year. My siblings and I are gradually clearing out old belongings. (There is no rush to sell in such a bad housing market.) Our family was in that house since 1957. So much of what we found in the attic had been boxed up years before and moved from other ancestral homes. Without my mother around to tell us the history or sentimental value of things, we can only guess what might have a story. We have to make decisions.
What about you? What surrounds you and steals your peace? Is it something that someone else threw down mindlessly? Were you asked to clean it up? Did you choose to take it on without being asked? Should you clear it away to do yourself a favor? Must you take action because it is your turn? Sometimes we find ourselves in a place where we do not want to be the ones to make things right. We would rather close our eyes and wish the clutter away.
Make a decision. You shall find greater peace when you are not surrounded.
Monday, November 29, 2010
Thursday, November 25, 2010
Mama Zebra
I know I can find my inner zebra because I am certain that my mother must have had stripes. Dad was a worrier. Mom was not. I often remind myself that I have genes from both of them so there is no sense in worrying all the time. As long as I am methodical like my Mama, then I know I have done all I can do, so there is no sense in fretting about things. Life will happen, but it does not have to happen all over me.
In under two weeks, I will be having major surgery. It won't be the first time, but hopefully it will be the ultimate surgery for my "girl stuff." I remember back in 1992, there were some days leading up to yet another surgery for endometriosis that were quite focused. I was much younger then, and I tried to be very adult about the whole process. I was living alone and had to plan for the groceries and food and supplies I would need once I came home from the hospital. I knew from previous surgeries that I would be too tired to do much of anything, let alone cook. I would not be able to lift anything heavy. By the time my big event arrived, I had done what I needed to do. The house would be ready for my return. Of course, back then, I still had Mom around to take care of me and the first part of my recovery would be at my parents' home.
This time, I have my husband. His sister will also help out. I have been getting my holiday shopping done early. The tasks at the office are getting pulled together or passed over or delegated in anticipation of my lengthy absence. I am thinking about what I will be able to wear home from the hospital and while I'm recovering. Soon, I will shop for the food I think I will be able to tolerate. Everything is coming together. If it isn't ready, so be it. There is no sense in fretting. My surgery is in the hands of a skilled physician. My recovery is in the hands of my loving family. Mama Zebra is no longer around, but I know she makes up half of me. Worry is not an option on this peaceful plain.
This week, I am starting a menstrual cycle. Now, that may not be a topic of interest for many folks, but let me explain. As a target of endometriosis since my teens, I have the sense of menstrual cycles as bouts of personal terrorism. Menstruation causes havoc and pain for many endo suffers, not only during the periods but in the time between periods. For decades, I was on "the pill" continuously so I would not have regular periods and, theoretically, not suffer the consequences. That worked a lot, but obviously not enough in my life. Now, I face a hysterectomy in less than two weeks. Imagine my gradual awakening as I realized that this period will be my last. That is a very big deal for someone who has feared every cycle, wondering how much pain and how much torment might be in store.
Thinking about my last menstrual cycle made me think about the first one. I was twelve years old. I knew all about the physiology of menstruation, but theory and reality are never the same. When the moment actually hit me for the very first time, I was at home and hollered for my mother. I cried. I told her, "I don't want it." My mother just calmly listened to me, then looked me in the eye and said, "Well, honey, we can't send it back."
Of course, I had no idea that day that menstruation would torment me so in the decades to come. And here I am, thirty-plus years later. When I realized that this would be my last period ever, I almost started to shed a tear because my mother is not here to help me through this surgery and recovery. She also is not here for me to celebrate the end of this saga. Mom is not here to make me laugh. Or is she? I remembered that first time and what she said to me, and I smiled. "Yes, Mom. I can. I CAN send it back, and I am going to very soon!" I laughed out loud. I suspect she did too, wherever she is.
I have shed enough tears for my first menstrual cycle and so many of them afterwards in the pain that is endometriosis. I shed tears for our eventual decision not to try to have children because the likelihood of success was very slim. Enough tears for the things I could not control. Now, I will laugh and relax. I am making plans and preparing myself and the rest will fall into place. Yes, I can send it back.
There are no lions here today. I drink from the watering hole in peace. I am content.
In under two weeks, I will be having major surgery. It won't be the first time, but hopefully it will be the ultimate surgery for my "girl stuff." I remember back in 1992, there were some days leading up to yet another surgery for endometriosis that were quite focused. I was much younger then, and I tried to be very adult about the whole process. I was living alone and had to plan for the groceries and food and supplies I would need once I came home from the hospital. I knew from previous surgeries that I would be too tired to do much of anything, let alone cook. I would not be able to lift anything heavy. By the time my big event arrived, I had done what I needed to do. The house would be ready for my return. Of course, back then, I still had Mom around to take care of me and the first part of my recovery would be at my parents' home.
This time, I have my husband. His sister will also help out. I have been getting my holiday shopping done early. The tasks at the office are getting pulled together or passed over or delegated in anticipation of my lengthy absence. I am thinking about what I will be able to wear home from the hospital and while I'm recovering. Soon, I will shop for the food I think I will be able to tolerate. Everything is coming together. If it isn't ready, so be it. There is no sense in fretting. My surgery is in the hands of a skilled physician. My recovery is in the hands of my loving family. Mama Zebra is no longer around, but I know she makes up half of me. Worry is not an option on this peaceful plain.
This week, I am starting a menstrual cycle. Now, that may not be a topic of interest for many folks, but let me explain. As a target of endometriosis since my teens, I have the sense of menstrual cycles as bouts of personal terrorism. Menstruation causes havoc and pain for many endo suffers, not only during the periods but in the time between periods. For decades, I was on "the pill" continuously so I would not have regular periods and, theoretically, not suffer the consequences. That worked a lot, but obviously not enough in my life. Now, I face a hysterectomy in less than two weeks. Imagine my gradual awakening as I realized that this period will be my last. That is a very big deal for someone who has feared every cycle, wondering how much pain and how much torment might be in store.
Thinking about my last menstrual cycle made me think about the first one. I was twelve years old. I knew all about the physiology of menstruation, but theory and reality are never the same. When the moment actually hit me for the very first time, I was at home and hollered for my mother. I cried. I told her, "I don't want it." My mother just calmly listened to me, then looked me in the eye and said, "Well, honey, we can't send it back."
Of course, I had no idea that day that menstruation would torment me so in the decades to come. And here I am, thirty-plus years later. When I realized that this would be my last period ever, I almost started to shed a tear because my mother is not here to help me through this surgery and recovery. She also is not here for me to celebrate the end of this saga. Mom is not here to make me laugh. Or is she? I remembered that first time and what she said to me, and I smiled. "Yes, Mom. I can. I CAN send it back, and I am going to very soon!" I laughed out loud. I suspect she did too, wherever she is.
I have shed enough tears for my first menstrual cycle and so many of them afterwards in the pain that is endometriosis. I shed tears for our eventual decision not to try to have children because the likelihood of success was very slim. Enough tears for the things I could not control. Now, I will laugh and relax. I am making plans and preparing myself and the rest will fall into place. Yes, I can send it back.
There are no lions here today. I drink from the watering hole in peace. I am content.
Sunday, November 7, 2010
Hot Tea for Me
Tea time is a ritual for me. It has been as far back as I can remember. When my sister and I would return home from school, Mom was always there to put the water on to boil. She would make a pot of tea and the three of us would gather to talk about the day. It was our oasis, our energy boost. Dad would be home later, but until then, it was just the girls.
I am convinced that our daily tea parties cemented our relationships. I hear tales of women who fight with their sisters and mothers and daughters. They do not find comfort in each others' presence. They do not re-live their days with drama and understanding and laughter.
My sister used to make tea for her daughters and herself when they returned home from school. The tradition continued in their household and their tight-knit family shows the results.
We have no children of our own in our lives, but my husband and I are both tea drinkers. When one or both of us have the urge for tea, the production begins. Choose a cup or mug to fit your mood. Select the tea. Boil the water (only on the stove, not the microwave!). Watch the steam rise as you pour the water. Wait. Add the sugar and the milk. It is a ritual every day that we cherish. We are bonded by the blend.
Even when I have a moment to myself and tea time arrives (which can really be any time), I honor my heritage and do not rush the ritual. When my cup is full, I find some small corner of the world, and I gently relax into memories of my mother, my sister, my nieces, my husband, my Grandfather Great Spirit. I am never alone when I sip a cup of hot tea.
I am convinced that our daily tea parties cemented our relationships. I hear tales of women who fight with their sisters and mothers and daughters. They do not find comfort in each others' presence. They do not re-live their days with drama and understanding and laughter.
My sister used to make tea for her daughters and herself when they returned home from school. The tradition continued in their household and their tight-knit family shows the results.
We have no children of our own in our lives, but my husband and I are both tea drinkers. When one or both of us have the urge for tea, the production begins. Choose a cup or mug to fit your mood. Select the tea. Boil the water (only on the stove, not the microwave!). Watch the steam rise as you pour the water. Wait. Add the sugar and the milk. It is a ritual every day that we cherish. We are bonded by the blend.
Even when I have a moment to myself and tea time arrives (which can really be any time), I honor my heritage and do not rush the ritual. When my cup is full, I find some small corner of the world, and I gently relax into memories of my mother, my sister, my nieces, my husband, my Grandfather Great Spirit. I am never alone when I sip a cup of hot tea.
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
Waves of Wisdom
Have you ever known something so well and so intimately that you wished you didn't? If you have experienced the death of someone close to you, the pain can feel almost unbearable at first. In time, with great caring from others and from yourself, you can move on. You never get over it. Why would anyone want to push the loss completely out of mind anyway? It seems, though, that you join a club that you never thought about until then.
When my mother died, I felt as if my heart would ache forever. I still have moments when the bitter reality crosses my mind. She isn't at her house. She isn't at the store. She will never make my phone ring again. Dad's death a few years later was tough, but expected. Mom's finality was sudden and never even imagined. The first and closest loss seems like a painful practice.
Two people at my office have suddenly surrendered their mothers in the last few weeks. I want to offer comfort or advice or wisdom, but I know that I cannot possibly lead them through this dark pass. They must feel their own ways through. I know what it is to be without my mother. I have no clue what it is like in their corners of the world to be without each of their moms. This undesired wisdom makes my heart ache for them. I know they hurt. I know they will heal. I just don't know how.
I can feel this wisdom growing like a tiny seed, expanding way down deep. When someone loses a special person, I sense that healing is within reach, although I know I can't tell them that initially, or maybe ever. When we faced the death of a co-worker earlier this year, I mourned the passing, but I did not feel surprised that our herd of humans would not be constant. I am starting to recognize that the others whom we welcome to our watering holes are much like ripples and waves greeting the land. These comings and goings are the only constant. We cannot keep all the waves coming ashore without some of them returning. There must be a balance. This, I know well and intimately.
When my mother died, I felt as if my heart would ache forever. I still have moments when the bitter reality crosses my mind. She isn't at her house. She isn't at the store. She will never make my phone ring again. Dad's death a few years later was tough, but expected. Mom's finality was sudden and never even imagined. The first and closest loss seems like a painful practice.
Two people at my office have suddenly surrendered their mothers in the last few weeks. I want to offer comfort or advice or wisdom, but I know that I cannot possibly lead them through this dark pass. They must feel their own ways through. I know what it is to be without my mother. I have no clue what it is like in their corners of the world to be without each of their moms. This undesired wisdom makes my heart ache for them. I know they hurt. I know they will heal. I just don't know how.
I can feel this wisdom growing like a tiny seed, expanding way down deep. When someone loses a special person, I sense that healing is within reach, although I know I can't tell them that initially, or maybe ever. When we faced the death of a co-worker earlier this year, I mourned the passing, but I did not feel surprised that our herd of humans would not be constant. I am starting to recognize that the others whom we welcome to our watering holes are much like ripples and waves greeting the land. These comings and goings are the only constant. We cannot keep all the waves coming ashore without some of them returning. There must be a balance. This, I know well and intimately.
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