Celebrations and hope

Ramona Behnke offered today's writing inspiration/prompt - to think about 'small celebrations' in our lives. Check out her thoughtful reflections on this theme, and read the comments on her post for links to other writers and their responses.

--

June simply bursts with celebrations - so many weddings and anniversaries, graduations, backyard barbecues to kick off summer, end-of-year parties to celebrate happy conclusions of various clubs and activities. Often, there's special travel to see loved ones at this start to summer (all the more special after two years + of pandemic) and, of course, there's Father's Day, as well. Yes, June is a celebratory time. 

We were invited to a gala event in celebration of a special someone recently, a dear friend of our family. I'll keep the party 'anonymous' in the interest of sharing something a little deeper:

there was one invitee whom I was totally surprised to see, 

someone I knew in a wholly personal, emotional, confidential way, totally apart from this celebration, 

someone I never imagined running into there or anywhere again

though I had hoped and prayed I would.

Years ago, we had met in a time of parallel pain; we had met at a recovery program, both of us parents to a child with addiction. This recovery program was an extraordinary blessing, giving us space to share our hurt and the tools we needed to move forward. Every participant shared personal stories, with the assurance of anonymity. 

I was awash in empathy for everyone, but this one family's story is one that I held in my heart these many years. One evening during the support group, this parent and I had the opportunity to share more deeply one-on-one, and I felt a sad yet beautiful intersection of our grief. We listened to one another and 'held' each other in this time of fear and confusion. I know I reflected on their words many times over, in the months and years to come; I was lifted by their story. I realized then that it is no small thing to be alongside another in suffering; there is great power in this.

"Although the world is full of suffering, it is full also of the overcoming of it." Helen Keller

Over the years, I have wondered about their child. I prayed for their recovery. I hoped for strength for the family. 

Here, many years later, we cross paths again! In the midst of a completely separate and jubilant celebration! 

It felt coincidental, so happenstance, so wonderful.

(I have a friend who assures that a coincidence is the work of the holy - when you are surprised like this, believe in the mystery of something much larger than you. In the midst of this celebration, I did feel the holy.)

This person and I, we greeted each other like old friends, with a warm embrace. We met each other's eyes. With just a few tender words, we were able to impart how much healthier each of our children now was. We shared big smiles, and moved apart to chat and mix with others at the party, continuing the celebration at hand. I, however, basked in the second celebration of simply intersecting with them, again.

Recovery, 
my goodness, 
this is truly cause for celebration - 
one that, so many years ago, I could hardly imagine. 

I hope I have been able to impart how serendipitous and special this reconnection was to me. I have been smiling for several days now, ever since running into this person again. 

I am so aware of 

    the healing power of time, 

    the strength, fortitude, and perseverance of individuals, and 

    the iridescent and lasting beauty of interactions. 

You simply never know what the future holds, and 

how your presence might help another. 

I do not fully understand

I am participating in the
 Slice of Life.  
All participants are writing about one moment, one part of their day, 
on Tuesdays.

                                                        Thank you, Two Writing Teachers!

The digital clock blinked "3:34 am," and I got up and shuffled to the bathroom in the dark...my usual, perfunctory, middle of the night ritual. A moment or two later, task completed, I stepped out of the bathroom, and immediately paused at surprise noise - I heard music, a joyful celebration of some sort, from the back of the house, our family room. What?! There is no one home these days except Tony and I, and Tony was asleep in our bed. How to describe the sound I heard...it was brief, muted, happy...a chorus of some sort, welcoming, exuberant, delighted. I leaned around the corner to peek, to see what was going on - honestly, I was not in the least bit fearful, only curious, even, perhaps, cheerfully expectant - only to find nothing there, nothing visible, and no more sound.

I went back to bed and lay down next to Tony, in the dark, smiling to myself at my overactive imagination. Certainly, there was no one else in the house, there was no one partying. Perhaps it was a neighbor, remnants of some late night festivities? I knew whatever the noise had been, it was okay. I lay there thinking about my Dad, and I was overcome with this feeling of serenity...a sense of softness, acceptance, celebration, connection, and love for him, as he journeys towards his death. 

I've been searching for serenity these past few weeks, battling anxiety, feeling increasingly stressed and depressed about my Dad, who is under hospice care at age 91, some 500 miles away from me, living out his days in a nursing home that is on lockdown with COVID. There is no possibility of in-person visits from family or loved ones. Yes, I've been quite blue. Yet, here in the dark of night, something almost magical had transcended into the air, bringing song and cheer, and I felt calm and peaceful. I do not fully understand.

Maybe it was that good long walk I had taken? 

Yesterday, I took a long, quiet walk in an effort to relax my mind. As I was finishing up my trek, I had the strangest sense that someone was coming up behind me, right on my heels, on my left side. I was on a spacious part of the path; it made no sense that anyone would feel the need to come right up behind me like that. I looked behind me, puzzled, and, yes, you guessed it, there was no one there. Strange! It felt like someone was there, shadowing me. The sensation reminded me of my Mom, in her last years, as she suffered from acute dementia...when I would visit, she would hang very close to me. If I walked down the hall, for example, she would 'toddle' up right behind me, following me as closely as she could, tagging along, like a child. 

I lay in bed, thinking, when a whisper of radiant light trickled through the curtains at the front of my bedroom - much like the music I thought I had heard, the light was soft, embracing, and brief. My window. Light in, around, through the curtains, a kiss of light, and it passed. I lay there in absolute awe and respect. I admit to having a smidgeon of fear - I reached over to my husband, placing my hand on his thigh, to anchor myself. What was happening? The light was not some car passing by on the street, certainly not a flashlight or searchlight...it was much softer than these...diffused, yet clear and hopeful. Too solid for fireflies...certainly not anything I could identify. I do not fully understand.

This light, this song, this dark night - my little spot of courage and love. This thing called life, what a mystery, how it weaves in and out of us, through and around. We are, we live, we die, we bring our whole selves into it all. There he is, my fiercely protective, strong, determined Dad, solving the greatest problem of his existence, and he is stumped by it, trying his best to die on his terms, to finish without hoopla and fanfare, desiring to be independent, resilient. He is stuck in the earthly confines of his Parkinson's, in this home with caregivers, dependent on their helping hands, thoughts, and care, he must submit, he must rely on others...I know this is so hard for him, as it is for me, all my siblings, too...we are not in control, we never have been. 

Tony woke up, responding to the touch of my hand on him. I told him about the music and the light, the mystery of this night. He shared my sense that I had been visited, yes, visited, by something much bigger than me. I had this pervasive sense of being fully connected to and with my Dad at this time, across all these miles...this sense of certainty, really, that it doesn't matter one whit that I am not physically with him right now, I am with him always, and he is with me always.

Realizing I was wide awake and there was no drifting back to sleep, I got up and moved into the living room, to write about this experience, to capture the details while they were fresh in my mind (everything you have just read!).  

Little did I know, the night's mystery was not yet complete. 

Into my journal I wrote:

At a minimum, I believe I am getting a beautiful message of peace, acceptance, serenity, from Dad, from the surrounds, from the larger universe, this holy spirit - I am loved, I will always be loved, I will always know this loving, my loving is felt by Dad, he sends and embraces me with his, all is well, there is no separation, no distance, there just is, there just is not.

No sooner had I written these thoughts down when there was, once again,  a sense of radiant light, enveloping me, this time over my left shoulder. I have a lamp on my right side; there is no lamp or window on my left side, only a bookcase...with a wave of soft, embracing light. 

I go still.

Pause.

What is this?

The light passes. 

I make the connection: this light, over my left shoulder, my Mom.

Mom, behind me on my walk, Mom supporting me during the night, letting me know, everything is well, everything is good, giving me strength. 

With that, I felt clarity and peace. I went back to bed, back to sleep; there were no more mysterious surprises. 

Something transpired that I do not fully understand, that led me to this very peaceful place. 

Dad is dying.

I am not there with him, and yet I am so present.

Attuned. Aware. Alongside.

This sense of eternal belonging, eternal connection,

we are one.

Insight from the dark, all will be well.

SOL19 - Slice #2 Frogs symbolize transformation

I am participating in the
 Slice of Life Story Challenge (SOL19)
All participants are writing about one moment, one part of their day, every day for the month of March 2019.

A big thank you to Two Writing Teachers for providing this unique opportunity
for teacher-writers to share and reflect.

One day in late October, at about five in the morning, my daughter-in-law went into labor, and we became grandparents to the most amazing little dark-haired girl.

On that very same day in late October, at about five in the morning, my mother suddenly became very ill and was rushed to the hospital; she died two days later.

My Mom left this world as our new baby entered it.

I feel the holy in this.

The height of joy, the depths of sadness, abundance, all.

I want to share so much about this beautiful child (*Frog) in our lives! She has been a healing balm for me these past months. We are so lucky that Frog lives only 20 minutes away from us, and we get to see her lots and lots. 

Let me tell you about Frog.

That dark, full head of hair,

a mix of black, brown, auburn, and light.

Those wide eyes,

penetrating, watching, absorbing.

So many precious faces she makes, 

even when she is asleep.

I love to sit and watch her, 

emotions flowing by,

happy, worried, wondering, surprised, serene,

and, oh, that heart-wrenching frown with the bottom lip puckered out -
you best hurry with that bottle you are fixing!

Her Daddy made that face when he was a baby.

There are often noises with the faces, 

coos, cackles, and cries.

She is just learning to laugh.

She finds freedom and joy on the changing table,

smiling with delight,

at her body free from the trappings of clothes,

legs dancing and stretching.

Frog's hands are so expressive, 

long, delicate fingers,

finding their way into her mouth

grabbing on the bottle or my hand, as I feed her,

or blanketing her face, 

discovering, 

and, often,

when sleeping,

held in tight fists.

I wonder, 

is she dreaming about all the work ahead,

as she changes the world?

*FYI - As I begin to share stories from my heart, I've decided to write fictitious names for my loved ones - however clunky that may seem - in the interest of preserving whatever shreds of anonymity one really has in this world. I'm going to call my grandchild 'Frog' - I love frogs...as a spirit animal, they exemplify renewal, transformation, metamorphosis, and so much more.