Matching Easter Dresses

It was 1965 when my Mom made us matching Easter dresses. The photographic proof is in a big box in my garage, but the picture is in my memory.

One Mom-size and one Little Girl-size sleeveless A-line shifts to the knee made of a light fabric with dark blue polka dots. Each dress had a matching short blue jacket, too. 

We were super cute together. I was 7 and she'd just turned 30 the month before that Easter in Modesto, CA. 

When my Mom sewed she took over the formal dining room with her sewing machine, ironing board, and fabric.  I can't begin to count how many hours of my childhood were spent in fabric stores. She was an excellent seamstress and made beautiful clothes when I was a child and even a stunning long blue gown for a college dance. I think she was her happiest in her "sewing room" which could be the dining room, an extra room, any room in the various homes we lived in during my growing up years.

In particular I remember the one in Danville, CA, just off the family room. It was 100% her room and no one else's. She sewed, she painted, she did needlepoint. She did a lot in that room.

And then, when I was in high school, she went back to work and eventually started her own business. Now she had a room to herself in the house and her own office. I didn't think much about it at the time, but I do now. It seems a bit crazy that I live in a three bedroom house, but I do and one room is my studio, my study. It invites me to reflection, to writing, to art. 

My Mom was a spitfire who made her own way as much as her background and time in history would allow. At the end of her 83 years she didn't remember that she'd sewn beautiful clothes and made art, but I know those impulses were still deep in her heart. She didn't remember that she had her own room in our homes and her own office. But, I remember as I now have my special spaces.

Clearly, I can still see the scene of the messy dining room at 2705 Sunrise Avenue in Modesto in the Spring of 1965 that turned out matching Easter dresses for a beautiful Mom and a cute girl.

The photograph is buried in a box, but the picture lives in my heart.

The Weight of My Heart

My beating heart. It only weighs 8 ounces. In two days it will have been beating outside of my mother's womb for sixty-four and a half years. I am very grateful.

My glass heart. It only weighs 8 ounces. It fits perfectly within the clasped palms of my hands and its red, blue, green, clear and glittery glass is made of ash. The ash of Mount St. Helen's that erupted 6 months before I got married in 1980. 

It calms me and soothes me and grounds me when held in my hands. When held against my anxious, beating heart.

Each heart weighs 8 ounces. Each is extremely durable and each is extremely breakable.

The one inside of me carries so much, as do all human hearts. In my work I caution people to be mindful of their physical hearts in grief because they can very truly hurt. Sometimes we need to seek medical care for such pain. The heart carries all that it means to be human.

AND.

A very full heart can explode with joy and wonder. Such is the case when an absolute picture of Triumph is set before us. Such was the case last night when I got to see and speak with and listen to an extended member of my family. A younger member who has endured so many challenges in her life and, yet, there she was on the screen telling me about her very good life now. A Triumph in itself. A Triumph of her heart and all of those who love her.

When the heart inside my body is going too fast, is carrying too much, is truly too tired for its years, the heart on the outside of my body, when held close and tightly helps regulate me. It grounds me. It reminds me of the solidness of earth, even when it explodes, and it reminds me I am here, I am needed, I am loved.

Eight ounces. Half a pound. That's all. 

That's all it takes to keep us going.

Triumph.

 

About Eight Feet Away

Over the past six days I've spent 33 hours in an online conference about grief, death, and dying. I had to do this to retain my certification in Thanatology for my position with Hospice AND I had to do it to regain stamina for the work itself. Providing a compassionate presence for people in all sorts of grief distress from death in all sorts of ways is a daunting task. 

Now I'm on my backyard deck for the first time this season because yard therapy was the order after such a long and intense week. Today my yard encounter began with greasing the bird feeder pole with olive oil to keep the very hungry and pesky squirrels off the feeder. This was met with minimal success as they began to catapult themselves from the deck onto the feeder. Plan 2: Move another pole, pound it into the ground in a different location and move the feeder.

The next part of my yard therapy included crawling around on the ground itself to take out weeds and make space for other things. This ended with sitting down. Sitting down on my deck to listen to the chimes and watch the many birds.

I don't know all their names, like George and Blanche do, but I can surely tell when one bunch has the relocated feeder figured out and another one doesn't.

For the past hour I've been watching some poor little guys hanging out on the old, now empty pole, jumping all around, up and down, looking for the feeder. During this apparently frustrating and fruitless exercise I've silently pointed to the new location about eight feet away to no avail. It's super big and a nice breeze must be spreading the seed smell everywhere, but these poor little guys can't figure it out. A few of their group even sat in the tree that's near the new location and they just can't get the job done.

About eight feet away - that's a pretty short distance for birds, I'd say.

I don't understand their inability to get what they need, but I do understand what I'm witnessing.

I get it because I do it all the time. All the time.

The things I need to keep a compassionate view of the world, the things that ground me in the here and now and keep me from drifting to what used to be, the things that speak life and love and hope to me are always within reach.

However, I'm just like these poor little birds, sometimes, as I sit on one pole to no avail because it used to feed me, it used to have sustenance to keep me going. And I sit, flit about, peck the ground, check out the empty vessels that held flowers last year, and wonder what's going on. I can't manage to look about eight feet away to see it's all right here.

Everything I need to replenish my heart and soul, everything I need to keep my body strong and healthy, everything I need to keep doing the work of my heart is right here.

I need only remember to look.

Resilience was a big topic in the conference I just attended. Resilience is a precious commodity in a world such as this one. It's something we can cultivate. It picks us up and keeps us going. Also, and this is important, being resilient doesn't mean we don't miss and long for everyone who has died.

No, it means we feel all those things AND keep going.

AND. 

The most important word for people in grief (which is everyone).

We are sad AND we keep going.

We are broken AND we keep loving. 

We can't find our sustenance AND we keep looking.

It's only about eight feet away.

Redemption Waits On Us

The rituals of Passover

Took priority over the Rising.

The people, the congregation, the community

Had to complete their appointed tasks

To recall, recapture, relive their ancient exodus and salvation in the desert.

And Redemption patiently waited in the dark tomb.

Specific foods were prepared

Prescribed liturgies were sung, read, and prayed

Ancient Jewish traditions carefully re-enacted in compliance with the scriptures

And Redemption patiently waited in the dark tomb.

Then, and only then,

After Passover was complete and the people slept

Only then did

Redemption Rise from the dark tomb.

Redemption didn't Rise until the people proclaimed their faith

Shalom waited until the people were ready.

Redemption waited on them

And now

Redemption waits on us.

Waits on us to share Shalom with others 

And

Fulfill the call of our faith practices knowing

They are just this - 

Only practices that bring the Ineffable close enough to intuit

Close enough to pass within a whisper of Jesus' cloak, to reach, to touch

To be healed.

Redemption waits on us.