The View from Here

A dear friend of mine called me yesterday morning to ask a favour - which I gladly granted - and we got to talking (as we usually do) about everything and anything, sharing the things on our hearts, and so forth.

It got me to thinking about how many (easy and hard) things I have experienced in my life, and wondering how much more there is to experience.  Ten years ago, if you had told me that I would be doing the things I am today, holding the opinions I have today, feeling as blessed as I am today, and planning the career I am planning today, I would have laughed SO hard.  Never would I have believed you.  

And yet, as I look around me, I have a sober and fully present soul-mate: my husband has been returned to me and we have enjoyed to the full his last six-plus years of sobriety.  I have his love and the love of my children (one here, one in Heaven).  I have the loving care of my dearest friends who are like family to me.  I have a job that is fulfilling and that pays me enough money to pay the bills and go to school at the same time.  I have a second career planned in connection with that schooling, and I have a renewed sense of self-respect and self-care that has allowed me to rid myself of excess baggage and stress in my life. Or, maybe, getting rid of the baggage and stress has allowed me to have more self-respect and self-care; I don't know.  

Photo "Monarch Butterfly" courtesy of
Liz Noffsinger at
www.freedigitalphotos.net

I have been in this chrysalis (cocoon) for a long time.  It feels as though who I was ten years ago has been slowly liquefied and another being has been forming, irrevocably changed at a fundamental level.  I cannot go back to who I was.  It is unthinkable; I am not her anymore.  I am "becoming a person" as Carl Rogers would say.

That catches me off-guard occasionally.  In a way, I don't recognize myself sometimes anymore; I do and say things now that I never would have done or said back then. Some of them are not as "polite" or "nice" as before, but then again, back then I was terrified of people not liking me, so I held back.  Not so much anymore. My fears are vaporizing, one by one.  I know that I do feel freer, more comfortable in my own skin. 

I miss certain things, certain people.  However, in some cases, the need for some of those people and things has served its purpose and it has passed, and I can do nothing except move on.  (I can hardly believe my ears as I say that. It's such a radical difference, coming from the "hang-on-for-dear-life" queen!)  I am growing and developing as a person.  Mind you, I have quite a ways to go yet, but I am improving.  

I don't think I am quite as self-righteously judgmental as I used to be (I still have some distance to cover on that at times).  I talk with people I would have crossed the street to avoid ten years ago.  Some people that I was drawn to back then (specifically the super-religious and super-ambitious types), I am repulsed by now because ... I guess ... their attitudes and speech remind me of where I used to be and what I thought was "right" - the problem was, I was more interested in being "right" and being seen favourably than I ever was about caring about people. That is changing ... thank God.  When I hear people being racist, or fat-ist (prejudiced against fat people), or elitist (prejudiced against someone based on their bank account or their bloodlines), or able-ist (prejudiced against someone for having [or not having] a visible disability) or homophobic, I am far more likely to speak out against it, rather than stay silent (or worse yet, laugh along with it.) 

I realize with some surprise that I have slowly allowed myself to take up space, and to have a voice, in the world.  Before, I wanted to disappear, to blend into my surroundings: I was a chameleon. It is a perfectly good skill to have if you are in an abusive relationship from which you cannot escape.  But ... I don't live in that atmosphere any more, so I am learning new skills. I still have those old skills if I need to use them, but I am seeing less and less of a need to do so.  I have learned that - as an adult - I have the choice to walk away from a relationship if it is abusive.  Or I can expose the abuse, since it tends to crouch in dark corners and avoid detection (that is how it survives.  Why not shine a bright light on it?). I - who avoided confrontation at all cost - can stand up to something that hurts me or hurts someone I love.  Huh.  Who knew?  

The view where I started, at the base of this mountain, was pretty daunting. It was littered with random boulders and strewn with debris and the occasional shrub.  I could only see in my own immediate vicinity, my own little irritations and pet peeves, my own futile attempts to climb. Overhead, dark clouds loomed, and the sun seemed very far away. 

I'm not exactly sure how it happened, but I do know when:  about six or seven years ago, I started shedding the chameleon skin (in therapy) and it was like someone from above threw me a rope that was anchored into solid rock, and attached to that rope was some climbing gear - it was a mess for a while until I figured out (mostly) how it worked and started climbing.  I am nowhere near the top now, but occasionally, I am able to put a knot in my rappelling line and turn around... and the dark clouds don't seem so ominous anymore.  I can even see a few rays of light ... and more square mileage than just my own little corner.  The things that previously seemed so random look more like a great mosaic, pieces of things put together that when you get far enough away from them, look like a work of art. 

I see others in the distance, other would-be climbers who are stuck in their own little corners, and I know that eventually I will be able to throw them a rope and some gear, too. I find myself looking forward to being able to do that, to trust my own gear enough to be able to help them use theirs.

That's a good feeling.  For now, though, I think I see the next foothold. And above that, a ledge ...

Still learning

My baby girl ...
It's been over two years since you passed away.  Trying to grasp it, I shake my head.  I still don't know how I've been able to survive these months with you gone - well, maybe I do - the love of those left behind has really helped.  

I've been thinking a lot about how much of an impact you have had on my life, not only by your death, but also (and much more) by your life, how you lived it, and what was important to you.  

I have talked a lot about what I learned through your passing, and the miracles with which I have been blessed in the midst of my grief.  I focus on those blessings because they are truly miraculous, and I so need the miraculous. 

The day-to-day reality is still of such unutterable sadness; I try to fill my days with other, busy things to occupy my mind.  Work, school, eat, sleep ... never enough sleep. Every day I am reminded in some way, whether I talk about it or not, of your absence from my life.  I can't say that I have gotten used to the dull ache inside that is my constant companion.  Sometimes it lifts, but then it comes back.  It is relentless, this "new normal."  And sometimes, it overwhelms me - even now.  

And so, lately I have been allowing myself to be inspired by you yourself, and how you approached (or should I say, attacked) every day.  Carpe deim - seize the day - was one of your guiding philosophies, even though you never said those exact words.  You were more inclined to say go big or go home - and friends matter.  And - of course - every snowflake counts.

If anyone was sad, you were the first to try and cheer them up.  If they were happy, you were happy with them and helped them celebrate. Your hugs were the best... tight and warm and long and heart-felt.  You would do the craziest things to lighten the mood, hated it when things were too quiet.  

Arielle, summer 2003

I remember the day that you and your sister and I went on a trail ride at one of those tourist stables - I think it was in Brackley.  We had such fun - you were around eleven - and then we went to this little diner nearby and got treats.  You had your first milkshake ... strawberry ... you were so excited!  From you, I learned that even the smallest shared pleasures can bring the greatest joy.

There was the time when you were four, and we were walking across the parking lot toward the grocery store.  It had rained the day before and the sun was out.  You slowed down almost to a snail's pace, irritating my take-charge agenda... until you told me what you were looking at.  "The rainbow, Mummy."  When I asked where, you said, "... in the puddle.  Look!" and you pointed.  There, in a dirty puddle with a little motor oil residue floating on top, were iridescent colours of red and green and blue and purple, reflecting a mini-rainbow, slowly distorting like a lava-lamp, in the most unlikely of places. We squatted and looked into the rainbow for a couple of minutes. From you, I learned to slow down, and to look for beauty ... because if I did that, I would find it, sometimes when I least expected it.  

There were countless times when you were a child that you would rush into the house in the summer and grab about five jumbo Mr. Freezies from our freezer, cut them in half and take them outside to give treats to your friends.  I complained.  I said you were trying to buy your friends.  I asked if you thought I was made of money.  But it never crossed your mind to withhold good things from your friends.  They were hot and thirsty, and you cared about them.  From you, I learned that love is lavishly generous.  It just is.  It doesn't need a reason and it makes no excuses.  It just gives.  I had to learn that lesson.  You just knew it instinctively.  

The stories I can tell are only a small portion of how amazing you were - wise beyond your years and a never-ending source of happy, crazy, funny, off-the-wall, passionate and compassionate you-ness.  I have learned even more of your stories from those who knew you - the lives you touched in your 21 years here with us has been far more than a lot of people get to touch. And you didn't do any of the things people associate with success: you never finished school, never had a job for any more than a few months ... yet you are still teaching me. 

I am still learning.  Maybe someday, I can be a little more like you ... when I grow up.