Solstice Speculations

Bring some Light into the Darkness
Bring some Darkness to the Light
As we Dance among the Shadows
Flickering
in Black & White
  
RSV visited our home. File it under “Really Sucky Virus” or “Ridiculously Savage Virus” either way, Respiratory Syncytial Virus is no joke. Although it came to us through one of the kids and hit her hard, now thanks to my asthma, I’m on a round of antibiotics and steroids while the kids are doing fine.
 
On the bright side, the days in bed gave me pause to reflect. It was a year ago on December 1st that Mom died. In the year since she’s been gone, I have tried to dream about her and looked for signs from her, but to no avail.
 
I woke early on the morning of her death anniversary and dug out one of her journals, one she never finished. It was gifted to her by a friend in 1986 when we lived in Paris, and I’d never read it before. I opened it randomly to an entry from March 6, 1986. When she wrote this, Mom was 49, healthy, and we had no plans to move. Therefore, this entry is completely unexpected.
 
She wrote, “Goodbyes have been some of the most difficult moments of my life until Paul blessed me with his vision in Galatians 2:20: And I live now, not with my own life, but with the life of Christ who lives in me…” She goes on to explain: “I wind in and out of people’s lives. Having touched them, I am blessed. Having touched me, they are blessed. Our roots are deepened and wings are strengthened. We have given each other grace to live more deeply.”
 
This insight, I realize, is Mom’s parting gift to me. It is what I have been seeking in 2022.
 
She then goes on to write about the “beautiful war between our roots and our wings”. It is a magnificent and painful contradiction, one we would do well to celebrate.
 
She writes, “it feels as though my feet are in two worlds. It hurts. I look at all the people I love. I know the day will come when I must celebrate goodbyes with them as I have with so many others.”
 
What gave her great comfort is the belief that she will live on: “not I, but those I love…I will live on through them. (Here she wrote the names of three friends, not her then-teenage kids, LOL). These friends will always be part of me, for they were present during so much of my unfolding.”
 
She would die 35 years after writing this, and I, while still grappling with her loss, would find it 36 years later, as a message from the grave.
 
How, I wonder, can we live more consciously, embracing this contradiction of roots and wings, and two worlds? It seems wrapped up in our ability to appreciate the privilege of winding in and out of each other’s lives while we can, to behold each other’s continual unfolding.

Holiday cards arrive, and with Mom’s perspective, each one sparks joy and reflection: to be present for each person at this time, here and now. I hope to find the time and strength to send out our own greetings, but in the meantime, I bask in the wishes of my tribe.
 
On Sunday December 11th, my thoughts are in Boston, remembering the profound memorial we held for my cousin Gary a year before. My cell phone rings from a Hingham number, and it is one of Mom’s friends. We haven’t spoken since the memorial in July, but she is calling to tell me that there is a huge gorgeous holiday bouquet on my parents' snowy grave. Do I know who sent it? I check with my siblings. We have no idea. That their loved ones are visiting their graves, anonymously remembering them with flowers, holding space for them, has me in tears. It reminds me that even in the dead of winter, we are not alone in our grief. We are not alone. For our loved ones live on in ALL those they loved, and that continues to sustain us. We are, each of us, blessed by one another. Our showing up for each other, beholding each other as Mom wrote, deepens our roots and strengthens our wings. For we give each other grace to live more deeply.