Mom's House, Mom's Rules

It is with mixed results that we bring our landscaping expedition full circle. The weather seemed to be working both for and against me, I worked more than connected, and poor Mom had almost bi-polar reactions to the excursion.

The weather somewhat cooperated by issuing rain only at night and offering a chilling sunshine during the day. I had not expected the windchill factor that occurred and was, therefore, left to huddle in a too-small, too-thin, borrowed sweatshirt, but I suppose the bright side of that was the quick dissipation of any hot flashes while I toiled against the weeds. However, Mom, who is always cold, preferred turning up the heat in the house to donning a sweater, so outside was frigid while inside was stifling.

As my stiff, tender joints will attest, I did make some weeding progress. Although I couldn’t make myself go out twice a day as planned, I did stay out long enough each day to accomplish an acceptable amount of work. The cold wind made it less than pleasant to be outside, but the sense of accomplishment was worth it. Regretfully, I did not make time to call any friends. I feel badly about this neglect because they are so good to me, but I will call them first thing when we go back next month. Now that the entire front yard, which is the most noticeable to passersby, is done, I will be able to slow the pace a bit next time and work in some visiting for both Mom and I.

It was difficult for Mom to make the decision to live with us year-round five years ago and so we have made an effort to visit and maintain her home as often as possible. Our trips have declined during the last three summers because of her health issues, but this year the change of venue seemed to be more draining than enjoyable for her. When she came out of her room the first hour we were there, crying over the toilet that kept running, I began to rethink trying to travel with her any more. It is no longer a matter of freeing her from all the planning, packing, cooking, and work. Something has changed this year. After three days of reflection, I am thinking that the mere effort of moving her limbs has become such an all-consuming job that Mom no longer has the energy to find joy in much of anything. She still loves having people visit if they come to her, but even that can become tainted with her worry over whether they are enjoying themselves, or if they still like her, or if Don and I are making them feel welcome, or what she could possibly do for them. Sadly, I think that perhaps her physical frailty has somehow also created an emotional powerlessness.

So our trip has been a success of sorts, but perhaps a hollow one where Mom’s happiness is concerned. Yet, I know deep down that not making the trip would not necessarily have lessened her frustrations and, now that we are back, she is pleased at the accomplishment and at the memory of the two people who had stopped in to see her. I hope this will be enough motivation for her to try again next month.

Deluge

Okay. I’m done. We have had rain off and on for weeks, but this week, this day, is enough for me. I feel like my home has been moved into a rainforest. I have foregone complaining until now for selfish reasons. Rain is good for the crops and good for my yard. It means a lower water bill and that no one, including myself, will expect me to go out and pull weeds. Rain adds to the water table, which sustains this area through the dry summer months, cleans the air, prevents forest fires, and washes the bird poop off my car. But a weather dial that is permanently stuck on this setting is not a good thing for me. A spring shower is one thing, but this bone-drenching downpour-that-never-ends is depressing. When it is finally over and the sun has come back out to play, I will be able to cheerfully proclaim how refreshing a good Eastern Oregon rain is, but for now, all I want to do is feed my growing depression with food. Where did I leave those potato chips?

Hole in the Clouds

It is so nice to see the blue sky and sunshine break through the clouds these days. We’ve had more cold days of rain than usual this spring. Although that’s great for the land, it can be dismal for my spirits. However, even just the occasional glimpse of a brighter day is cheerful enough to sustain me.

Today Mom had a front tooth break off and she cried in frustration over her two recent bouts of falling and now this. In her misery, she wonders if she is being punished. I hope she is able to see through the clouds of disillusion soon and glimpse a different perspective. She has been blessed with good health all her life and may have forgotten that others have had to deal with these misfortunes and worse much earlier in life.

I know it’s easy for me to sit here and espouse a brighter attitude, but I hope she can see some hope shimmering through the hole in these recent rain clouds. Her psyche has become as fragile as her body, but she’s not alone, she’s with family who love her, she’s still a dynamite 96 year old, and I’m pretty sure the dentist can fix up her smile if she will just give him time.

Mothers Day

Madonna and Child (cropped) by Rafaello Sanzio

There is a type of love that comes with being a mother that, for me, can only be described as ferocious. It is so strong that it influences decisions, drives late night worry, and overrides mistakes, hurts, and doubts. At its worst it can become unreasonable, manipulating, and selfish, but at its best it is forgiving, healing, and empowering.

This year I have experienced Mothers Day for the 55th time as a daughter and the 35th time as a mom. Although I miscarried our first child at three months, the feline roar of that love had already begun inside of me. It is as a mother that I was able to better understand my own mom. Her sacrifices meant more to me once I was an adult than they did when seen through childish eyes. Like being able to replay a movie to get more meaning from it, I now understand her perspective. For instance, as a child, I didn’t understand why she befriended a neighboring woman and her three small children. The kids had snotty noses and seemed unkempt to me and I was horrified once when she asked me to take them to a puppet show during a church bazaar. But Mom was inviting me into the realm of empathy and compassion. Knowing the woman was on her own after leaving a drunken and abusive spouse, Mom sewed clothes for her kids and helped rebuild her confidence through acceptance and friendship.

As a daughter I have come to realize that, although I struggle to become autonomous and wrestle with my own values and decisions, I will always be a child in need of a Mom’s love and approval. Oddly, that doesn’t even change when you have to assume the role of your parent’s parent because of age or infirmity. Similarly, as a mother, I am experiencing what Mom warned me of many times: that you never stop worrying about your children even though your ability to protect them wanes.

I believe Mary and Jesus understand this kind of connection because they lived it. I did not appreciate their relationship fully until I became a mother, but now I can imagine what this woman went through at the foot of the cross because I know in my heart that as she looked up at her son’s tortured figure, she could still feel his tiny presence in her arms from when he was a baby. It is comforting to me to know that they understand the struggles and the pain and the love that we experience in this life, and that we can look to them for sustenance where our human experience is wanting.

The connecting thread between mother and child may be fine, but it can still be strong. Ferociously strong. Forever.

Pieta by Michelangelo

Undoing Christmas

I hate putting away Christmas decorations. Whether I rush to get it done in a day or drag it out for a week, it is a tedious, melancholy process. Un-decorating means the anticipation is over, the celebration is done, and everyone has gone. Collectively, with the help of advertising, Americans tend to now heave a sigh and twist to face the next holiday of choice on which to focus, but I find it a little harder to let go than that.

Part of my reluctance is that the articles in question never go back as easily as they came out of their containers, and seldom do they fit as well. I diligently mark the contents of every box, but either the items mysteriously increase in size or they somehow multiply, I’m not sure which. I also have to sheepishly admit that I hate to throw away some of the pretty bows and handy boxes that we are left with after our rip-and-tear-sessions. I’m sure they’ll come in handy next year, if I can just figure out where to stuff them for the next eleven months.

I guess sentimentality is the other part of my dislike for taking down decorations. The house is emptier, the winter weather is less charming, and people begin to smile less as they trudge back into their normal routines. However, maybe I should look at it differently this year.

According to my new mantra, I should “seize the moment, celebrate, and savor” this end-of-season drudgery. Let’s see…hmmm. Um, nope. Still leaves me cold. See ya next year Santa. Don’t be gone long.

Defining Moment

What is your favorite color? We are asked that from the time we are little. I have decided that mine is black. Although I have always been drawn to it, I've never claimed it as my favorite, but today I am. For some reason that I have never put into words, I have always felt that it is not supposed to be a favorite color. My art teachers would say black is not a color and, therefore, cannot be chosen as a favorite. Our culture says black is a symbol of death and would, thereby, be gruesome, sorrowful, or a sign of anarchy to choose. My fears say black is darkness and I am afraid of the dark, of what I cannot see or do not know.

Staring at Mary's multicolored butterfly shirt in front of me at church today I realized that black brings clarification; even just a little black. Although stunning in its own right, it does not glorify itself, but rather, defines and highlights the other colors near it. This is also true of sorrow. Although we do not seek sadness in our lives, we must admit that when even a little of it touches us, it can bring clarity. The important things and the simple happinesses of our lives are brightened and defined while the unnecessary clutter fades to the background.