A Hard Good-Bye Long Past

It's been almost a full year since the passing of my friend. The initial shock of her leaving has worn off, but the sadness and the missing of her has retained it's vigor.  This morning I was reviewing a gratitude list that I've been keeping for some time now. Nestled between the other entries was one that read, "Cooking in our kitchen with Lisa". I wrote that quite a long time ago- a couple of years ago, most likely- but I clearly recall that day. After the meal, we stood by the sink, me washing and her drying what couldn't be cleaned by the dishwasher.  She laughed as I told her I'd never been joined in the kitchen before. For her, growing up in an Italian family with siblings and other relatives present, partnering in the kitchen was commonplace. I enjoyed that day immensely.  I still think of it sometimes as I stand at the sink alone.  While I cook in the kitchen with my daughter often, it's rare for me to have another adult by my side. And because the kitchen is somewhat of a sacred space for me, that day with Lisa was doubly special. 

When I first had my daughter, Lisa was one of the few people I trusted to help me care for her. She helped me to find my voice at a time when I was still a bit shy and timid. Once, when we were at the beach, a grimy man who was stumbling about the broadwalk reached out to touch my then baby.  Lisa, admonished him immediately, telling him in her raspy voice, "Don't touch the baby with your dirty hands!"  I was grateful that she'd spoken up when my own voice felt so uncertain.  I have since grown and changed a great deal; I can hardly recognize the mouse I once was. But Lisa helped me to get to where I am now.   

For a new Mom, everything in life revolves around our new little one.  We accept this, usually without much thought, but appreciate it was someone thinks to do a little something for us too.  In my early days at home with wee Sparkle Fairy, Lisa would sometimes come by with a little something for us both. She might bring a toy or a trinket for the baby, and would give me a candle or some lotions. It didn't matter what the gift was; it just felt good to be considered, to receive that love.  

When Sparkle Fairy grew a little bigger, Lisa would sometimes babysit for her. Our daughter adored Lisa, and until recently would shy away from the mention of her name. It was difficult for her to acknowledge Lisa's death; she was a part of our girl's life from the beginning.  We have a ritual with potato chips- Lisa used to tell Rachel that the folded over chips were the best (aren't they though?!). They'd sit at our kitchen table, and when either pulled a folded chip from the bag, they'd hold it high in the air before chomping it down.  To this day, those potato chips are Auntie Lisa chips.  

The last time Lisa and I communicated, I told her I loved her and would see her when I got back to Florida. I could feel in my solar plexus that she was in some sort of trouble but she never told me what was going on.  I had no idea how sick she'd been, or that she'd almost died already over the previous months. I don't blame anyone but myself, really.  I'd distanced myself from her a little bit because I'd had some confusing experiences with her during which her addiction was fully in charge.  While I was familiar with the dynamics of addiction and could handle some of those painful moments, my daughter could not. I didn't want her to see Auntie Lisa at her worst. She was so beautiful at her best. I wanted my girl to know her for that. For the past year, I've regretted that I didn't find a better balance with this situation. While I don't have any false notions that my presence would have changed the course of her life (if she could have gotten well for anyone it would have been her daughter, but addiction doesn't care how much we love our family, or our friends), I do wish she'd been aware of my support for her. In my heart, I never gave up on her. To the last day, I held a shred of hope that she would be able to make the changes she needed to make in order to live.  It was not to be.

I miss her. 

Dancing With Dragonflies

Summer began to exert its full fury about a month ago. Suddenly, it's so hot outside that the act of breathing causes me to break a sweat. Some of the Moms in our home school group meet at the beach weekly and I have no idea how they handle this weather while sitting on a towel over hot sand. Even in the shade, 

the sweat runs in rivers down my body and I start to break out into hives. I guess my Irish skin was just not made for this type of climate. 

I've been thinking a lot about gratitude lately.  I keep a gratitude journal, and each day I try to add something to the list. The really wonderful thing about the act of writing this list is that most days I'll open the book thinking about one thing that sparked my gratitude but end up adding several more items beneath the original.  It seems that once we open our hearts to being thankful we throw  wide a doorway to awareness of many more beautiful things we might otherwise have missed.  Gratitude chases away my arch enemy, depression, which allows me more energy for hanging out with my daughter,  being creative artistically, exercising, and all sorts of other activities.   It's almost magical the way gratitude operates, but I have to live my day with eyes open to the awesomeness of the little things as well as the big.  A few days ago my heart was momentarily captured by the sight of dragonflies dancing over our back lawn. One in particular, a red dragonfly, caught my attention. Her iridescent wings and jewel like body sparkled in the sunlight and I felt privileged to be witness to her summer frolicking.  The enchantment of nature has the power to halt me in my tracks if I choose to take notice.  There is great healing there. 

And so, as Thursday rolls her doors open for business, may you notice the sparkling jewels in your day. Don't let them dart past unnoticed!!!

Roots

After experiencing a lovely July 4th weekend with friends and my own little family unit, I launched into a suckfest of a week.  The very sad thing about this is that as I write it's only Tuesday, and only halfway through Tuesday. We had a long weekend off from construction vehicles barreling down our street and the FPL "tree experts" hacking away at trees, the branches of which they would then feed into the tree chipper which they'd decided to park directly across from our front door. For a tree lover, few things grate on the nerves as much as the sounds of branches screaming as they're fed through that monster-like contraption.  There has been little peace in my heart over the past week since this began sometime around last Monday, and I think I'm close to my wit's end with the situation.  The noise and stress began afresh this past Monday.  As I drank my morning coffee I heard the trucks pulling up and the knot in my stomach re-knitted itself as I know they've been eyeballing the beautiful tree in our front yard with ill intention.  

Yesterday afternoon I pulled into the driveway after an uneventful trip to the supermarket.  I noticed that our neighbor was outside talking with another man; when he saw me roll into our yard he approached my car and asked if I'd talk with this tree person.  My heart surged briefly with hope that this guy might be able to clear some of our great tree's branches from around the lines without destroying the aesthetics of the tree. They were quickly dashed as he told me be wanted to lop off a huge branch for "the health of the tree". Nevermind that, as I pointed out, said branch is home to some baby birds, the parents of whom I've been watching defend for the past couple of weeks. I've come to be quite fond of those mockingbirds, and also quite protective. My neighbor, who is a vegan, should have been in my corner with this, but he just looked at me sympathetically and said nothing. Why is it that people are so enamoured with so called specialists? I do my own research with everything these days, as it seems that most of these "specialists" are interested more in making a buck than they are in actually doing the right thing. The tree guy, in a fashion typical of anyone who sees dollar bills suddenly flying away like feathers in a windstorm, launched into a dialogue of fear, shame, and sheer bully tactics at my negative response. These tactics rarely work on we stubborn and hard to intimidate New England girls. In true New England fashion, I told him I couldn't deal with anybody else's shit today and basically advised that he go fu*k himself.  I'm sure the neighbor was shocked and I'm mildly sorry about that, but I've been holding onto a shred of serenity lately that is supported by the nature in our yard, and as I feel that slipping away I'm not sure how to cope.  I ranted all the way into the house about how tired of this place I am and how happy I would be to move away. 

After this encounter, I did what every self respecting New England girl would do: I grabbed a mug of coffee and retreated into the sanctuary of our back yard, where I plopped onto the grass with our hen and cried my eyes out. Okay, New England style is generally to be tough, but sometimes a good cry can help us to sort out our deepest issues and then to move toward resolving them. So, there's some logic to that, and we New Englanders pride ourselves on being thinking people, so I think my cry was justified. Not that I need to justify myself to anyone. 

I realized that so much of my life lately revolves around trying to make other people happy and comfortable, as well as around the fear that my actions will make someone else upset with me. I can't talk about my longing for home while in my own house anymore, and I'm reminded too often in my own head not to be selfish, to put the needs of everyone else before my own, because that's what I've been told I should do.  I feel like a non-person some days, and one can only be a non-person for so long before she loses control in an ape shit tirade against a roving tree specialist and her usually hippy crunchy vegan neighbor (I generally love hippy crunchy vegan folk and like my neighbor, just to clarify).

I grew up in a place that loves tradition and values things like antique houses, special landmarks, and Walden Woods.  I hate the artificiality of a place like South Florida, where so much value is placed on the newest, the shiniest, the fastest, the most expensive.  There are tree huggers here, but we're in a constant battle. As are most tree huggers, I suppose. I'm tiring of being severed from my homeland, though. And it's taking a toll.