Pixie Dust and Fairy Wings

My mom has never discouraged me from letting my imagination soar. Something for which I am so grateful.

 I was thinking this morning that I used to really truly believe in fairies, leprechauns, magic, little people, invisible people…. angels. I would take walks through the trees, searching for their hiding places, would feel someone with me even when I was all alone. I used to think they left gifts for me because I would sing them my made up songs or the songs I loved. (Yes, son. Your mother has always been a tree hugging hippy at heart.) I would have a butterfly land on my shoulder. I’d find a certain type of shiny stone or a flower that had been dropped by a bird, or see a squirrel staring at me, eye to eye and thank the fairies.

It’s funny, the more we age the more we sometimes return to those things that made us up as a kid. It dawned on me this morning that sometimes I think I was trained in the way of the pixies. Sprinkle a little part of your soul (dust) on others. Leave some little thing behind, even if it’s a silent and whispered prayer. Try to make the world a slightly better place just because you flew through.

We all go through such traumatic events; physical ailments, pain, heart break, disappointment in life, no job, not enough money, homelessness, emptiness. And then a door seems to magically open and all of the sudden your life has been added to, expanded …. through someone’s grace, someone’s smile, someone’s touch. I’ve been the recipient. I’ve been the giver. Both impact life in a way that I think ripples so far beyond what we can see.

I’m challenging myself with new resolve to believe again. In the magic that softly falls and dances and coats a lonely world.

I like to think that while hurricanes tear apart and destroy, while the earth quakes and quivers with its need to keep changing and forming and re-shaping itself, that there will be those who continue to sprinkle light particles into the dark, who shine a little path through the darkest places in order to bring about transformation unlike we as humans have ever known.

Hope

“Hope reflects belief.

Hope believes in the better, in the higher, in the possibilities. Hope rejects criticism. People with a higher level of hope believe that though events may not work out, they will not be defeated. Hope is the dream of a soul awake.”   (author unknown)

I’ve been struggling with so many things the past few weeks. Doing my usual questioning, my normal carrying of grief and sorrow for things that seem to be slipping away. Struggling with what I’ve allowed, what I’ve believed in that hasn’t served me as much or as beautifully as supportive situations and people would have. But I have honored the discovery and uncovering. Felt somehow comforted that I’m becoming “more aware” or something, even though often times that process seems so painful and uncomfortable.

Several months ago, my granddaughter’s little dog got hit by a car, fought for six weeks before a vet figured out her insides had been all shoved up into her rib cage, causing so much stress on her lungs that only five percent of one lung was functioning. Somehow she stayed alive long enough for corrective surgery. I firmly believe it was my granddaughter’s touch, her love and her blind faith that kept Bella alive during that period of time. Surgery was a success and our little soul was back to bouncing and being her full-of-life self again within another six week time frame. But a few days ago, the outcome changed drastically and our tiny fighter’s health plummeted. Seizures. Loss of muscle control. No explanation. Test results that expected a liver disorder or damage came out “normal”.

When everyone else was suggesting we spare her, put her to sleep, I’ve fiercely held on again. Part of me believing that I need to adopt my granddaughter’s determination, will and absolute knowing/faith.  I keep thinking, surely if she came out of it once, she’ll come out of this. Day after day the vets and staff have diligently tried, they’ve listened, planned and advised.

Last night I brought her home and realized how much she has been suffering, how much she is no longer “present”. After holding her all night, watching her in her misery, we allowed her to "go" this morning. Letting go of that little Yorkie opened up floodgates inside but I can’t help remembering all the blessings she gave to us all, the smiles and giggles, the orneriness and puppy breath in your face moments, kisses on the nose… As I was taking her to the vet this morning, it occurred to me that now her energy will be more free to move and maybe part of that movement will be a surrounding of my granddaughter that will serve Emaleigh better from another place, another dimension. Surely it’s that easy.

Yesterday as I was holding Bella; petting her, talking to her, it dawned on me that I am projecting everything into this situation. I’m transferring all sorrow for my mother’s stroke, for her aging process that I cannot control; for what it means to me as a granddaughter and daughter of women who suffered from Alzheimer’s. I’ve been placing the sorrow I feel towards things I can’t control with my sons… past hurts, past experiences with seizures, surgeries, past moments of panic when I was afraid I was losing one son or another for one reason or another. Lost love, lost home, lost livelihood. Things that have been lacking. Relationships that shattered and dissolved and disappeared without my complete understanding. The fear of not knowing where time is taking us all. Everything seemingly negative – all wrapped up in a little furry bundle that no longer was able to be her real self anymore.

Maybe we're all just supposed to experience the moment. Allow cleansing tears and questioning so it’s easier to live inside a new day. Surrender to whatever is present and right in front you. Maybe hope doesn’t equate a blind faith. Maybe it’s simply the ability to step outside, feel the sunshine on your face, drive your car down the street and order a large chai tea latte with extra chai.

When Life Circles Back Around....

I just tucked my mother into bed.

I also just spent the past little while cleaning and scrubbing and tending and taking care of her after she became unexpectedly and suddenly ill.

All the time it’s been taking place, she has been teary-eyed and apologizing, saying she’s sorry.

I keep reminding her I’ve seen worse, dealt with worse. But it doesn’t ease her mind.

While she’s sleeping, I’m spinning thoughts through my brain. While I can, while my mind is whole. I'll never take that for granted...

I can’t help feeling like somewhere along the way, I became mother and she became daughter. Or maybe, life affords us the advantage of switching things around periodically. So we more fully understand what words like “sacrifice”, “respect”, “dedication”, “commitment”, “honor” and “caring” really mean.

I haven’t seen her for several months now. And coming “home” to her presence has ignited internal conflict that I wasn’t prepared to greet.

I have the comparison of seeing my nieces and nephews, three months later; three months older; three months changed. It’s funny how we see children maturing and we welcome and embrace the leaps made. Why is it so much different then, to see changes in someone who is aging, getting older? There is a certain beauty to be found. A kind of elegance I see in her that quietly states, “No matter how scary it is, no matter how hard it is to walk or to talk or to remember moments past, I am alive and I am present and I continue to care.” I sense she is more in touch with how to let go. In touch with how to love. And how to just blurt out what needs to be said. There is some kind of strength and some kind of grace that seems to be gaining momentum within her; maybe it's simply a return to complete innocence.

But it doesn’t make it easy to accept that time keeps marching forward, with or without memory. With or without reasoning. With or without rationalization. With or without logic. With or without control.

I’m watching her sleep. Wondering how many times in my early childhood she did the same thing… Stood and lovingly watched me with my eyes closed, soft breathing that let her know I was all right.

I keep thinking life is a process of letting go and receiving in. Both being so difficult at times, so easy during other times. And I keep thinking how life feels like it is circling back on itself somehow. Where the child cares for the parent. Yet there is a lingering, long-ago-and-hard-to-reach-back-for memory of the parent caring for the child. Folding in on itself until it’s hard to know who is the child and who is the parent.

I don’t understand it.

I can’t.

I can’t even try.

All I can do is experience and move through the circle….