Dear Mom (Dec 31/17)

Sun, Dec 31/17

Dear Mom,

Today marks the end of "2017". It has been a year I will never forget...

I have been grateful to be spending this time in your home. It is the last time "you" will play host to me. It's been relaxing and so peaceful here as I have squandered these days away.

It's been beastly cold and as I wavered between staying or going yesterday, I could hear you say, "Stay another day...what do you have to hurry home for?" So I stayed.

I had hoped the extra day would give the weather a chance to break but it doesn't look like that is going to happen until tomorrow. What would you say about that?

I've puttered away a little bit while I've been here. Nothing extraordinary and I most definitely didn't break a sweat. But a wipe here, a swipe there and I stumbled upon a glass picture of an owl in a downstairs window. I think I'll bring it home with me...

As I sat still and gazed out your living room window to enjoy the view you saw evolve over the years (and most especially this past one), tears fell from my eyes. I've been wandering through these days as if I were you, taking everything in, listening to the walls speak .

Laughter and voices of those who have come through these doors are ringing in my ears. Your home holds so much history. Laughter, joy, pain and sorrow ... but most of all, this house lives and breathes "family".

A family united. Throughout it all, you were the constant. So many people came and went. Company was welcomed with open arms - "Everyone brings joy to this house ... some when they come ... others when they leave". This slightly paraphrased plaque Trev gave you said it all.

You welcomed everyone who came to call. Everyone. The coffee was always on, even if it wasn't coffee. "A cuppa...", as May would say.

Derek's family were going to be your last guests. At first, you were simply resigned to the idea even though you weren't up to company. You perked up when you decided you would like to have an assortment of fruit to offer them. You chose the selection - pineapple, strawberries, grapes, banana. "Don't get them yet, though. Wait until the day before they arrive..."

I never did pick up that fruit. You ended up in the hospital the morning Derek's family was due to arrive. Throughout your hospital stay and (almost) until your dying day, you kept asking me if I had picked up that fruit yet.

A host to the bitter end. That was who you were. Your door was open, the coffee was on and your offer of a "B & C" (bed and coffee) was always available.

Your clock would be chiming 8:00 right now. Your walls are talking to me again. I can hear your voice as we called it a night. "What time shall we say? 8 o'clock?", as we decided a reasonable time to get up the next morning.

I remember those last mornings when I sat at your table, watching for your bathroom light to come on, signalling the beginning of another day with you. It didn't happen. I knew it wouldn't, but I wished for it so...

I think of you every time your clock chimes 8 a.m. It isn't quite the same now that your clock is in my home but it is close. The sense of smell can take you back to another time and place. The sense of sound is a close second.

I must pack up and remove all traces of my presence very soon now. I will be thinking of you. I will wear your angel on my shoulder for my drive home and hope you can guide me home safely.

I will miss you, Mom. Thanks for everything. You were everything to me. The idea of flipping the calendar page to a brand new year without you brings tears to my eyes.

Rest easy. All is well here on earth. We miss you (but the letting go is a little harder than it sounds).

All my love,

Colleen

I'm Listening...

I am desperately seeking direction right now. This morning, these are the messages that found their way into my consciousness:

Compliments of my daily email compliments of ProjectHappiness.com, this was the first of four affirmations I was destined to read today:

2016: The Caterpillar

2017: The Cocoon

2018: The Butterfly

"Just when the caterpillar thought its life was over, it began to fly. Trust the seasons of your life ..."

Because I started following "Goalcast" on Facebook, the next three found their way into my line of vision:

"Always remember your focus determines your reality" ~ George Lucas 
https://www.goalcast.com/2017/12/14/george-lucas-star-wars-making-masterpiece/

"When the whole world is silent, even one voice is powerful" ~ Malala Yousafzai
https://www.facebook.com/goalcast/videos/1672631226147394/?hc_ref=ARSgRXLr3ol3zjNRmRxKpxZTGXhkmqtfnyH01H6jF4X3KBb-bcXa771BHXkLRv82Ieo&fref=nf

"It is not over. Matter of fact, it just begun" ~ Lisa Nicols
https://www.facebook.com/goalcast/videos/1669663696444147/?hc_ref=ARSgRXLr3ol3zjNRmRxKpxZTGXhkmqtfnyH01H6jF4X3KBb-bcXa771BHXkLRv82Ieo&fref=nf

I must be at the beginning of something brand new. Is this how a butterfly feels before it works its way out of its cocoon? If so, I must commend that fragile butterfly for continuing to forge ahead when it must feel uncomfortable and scary.

Change is on its way. I am not a big fan of change...

The Dreams are Coming ... (where is my field?)

Life feels overwhelming when you think too hard. I have been trying not to force my thoughts. When I finally relaxed, the right kind of thinking replaced the fear, the anxiety and all the negativity that has been sneaking into my thoughts lately.

The last real conversation I had with Mom, about my "ten year plan", continues to weigh on my mind. 

Life is a fickle thing and we never know what tomorrow may bring, let alone ten years. The mere thought of my need to direct my focus onto "what's next" when my employment situation changes is daunting.

As I headed my car in a westerly direction towards Edmonton last weekend, thoughts wafted in, around and through my mind. 

I keep coming back to the "Oakes Place". A bed and breakfast. A place for reunions to happen. Perhaps a sideline of pampering and a friendly coffee place for the off season. A little oasis in the quiet of the Saskatchewan prairies.

A diamond in the rough. I cannot let go of the idea of wanting to build an investment out of little to nothing. I want to build a future the way my grandpa did. I cannot let go of the fact that the quarter section of land I inherited was bought for $1,000.00 back in 1938. It has been sold for 150 times that amount almost 80 years later. How can I invest in something that will retain its value and (hopefully) appreciate in value that exceeds the cost of living?

Retirement accommodations ... housing that could provide independent living, yet provide one roof which would house areas to promote socializing, quiet reflection, recreation and nourishment. A miniature version of where my aunt lives in a scaled down, small town way.

I don't want my "ten year plan" to include pounding the street to find employment outside of my home. I'm already pushed to my max right now, leaving our home on an (almost) daily basis to earn a living. I'm working for people I know well, I'm doing what I want to do but I don't love doing it. Because I'm not really my own boss. 

I want to recreate the "daycare dream" where my home provided not only shelter and a place to live, but it housed my place of employment. People came to me. I earned a very good living from home. Self employment brought out qualities in me that I never would have found, if I had never worked on my own.

The answer is somewhere within these thoughts. I'm not in a hurry. I have the luxury of not having to rush the process.

I have a feeling I'm already "living the dream". I just have to relax and let the ideas come to me. If I build it ... they will come. My field of dreams may be closer than I know.

Impossible Things

Getting out of bed in the morning is getting harder with each passing day. Leaving the house became so hard yesterday, I stayed home.

I went to bed last night knowing I could not play hooky another day. I had to leave the house. Early. But I had so much to do. It was going to be sooooooo hard.

Six impossible things to do before breakfast:

1. Snow to shovel
2. Hair to wash ...
3. ... resulting in a bathroom to vacuum ...
4. ... so why not vacuum the rest of the house while I'm at it
5. Lunch to make
6. Recycling and garbage to go out

I did it. I did it all. I sat down with my coffee and morning smoothie knowing the hardest part of the day was behind me.

All I have left to do is:

     7. Leave the house

Life is hard. I don't think I like December. It seems to me last December felt much the same. No wonder people go south for the winter.

But then again, I'd have to leave the house. 

Dear Mom (Nov 27/17)

Mon, Nov 27/17

Dear Mom,

Well, all I really have to say is that "normal" is highly overrated. This past week was most likely my official return to the life I had before the past year unfolded. It's back to the drawing board for me.

I cannot believe how much my thoughts continue to revolve around you. Perhaps that is because my "before" picture consisted of a world where you were my primary focus. I was warned not to let that happen. But it did. And it was right.

This weekend, I was so thrilled to know I had two fully uncommitted days at home. All I had to do was donate blood. You have no idea how much I wanted to cancel that appointment. But I had already done that two times and I knew I had to go and do it. It would be okay.

And it was.

I ran one errand after another so I could go home and hibernate for the remainder of the weekend. But that never did happen.

One thing led to the next and I was barely home the past two days. I wish I could say it was great. But it wasn't. I simply wanted to be home. And stay there.

But it wasn't in the cards.

I have ended up with yet another bad haircut which has been compounded by a second cut that is not exactly what I had in mind. The hair stylist asked me a simple question which resulted in my eyes tearing up and overflowing. She was washing my hair at the time so gravity resulted in tears running into my ears. Kindness is hard to bare.

I ended up spending yesterday in the hospital. Elaine broke her hip on Saturday and she was more concerned about her family than she was for herself. So I was "just showed up" so she knew they weren't alone. I felt like my presence was unnecessary but I stayed until I knew things were okay.

All is well for now. But I know how precarious that state can be. So I sit still with that knowledge and trust everything will unfold in a way Elaine's family can bear. Nothing is easy when it comes to realizing your parent is a mere mortal. I've been there and done that. I'm grateful for the process that prepared me for our new reality.

Nothing feels easy or natural or like I am "exactly where I am meant to be" right now. The only place that feels right, is when I am home. Your home or mine feels equally soothing to my soul.

Speaking of your home, Trev took care of business this weekend. Your garage and shed are cleaned out and the house is ready to adopt a new family. The house is ready. We are ready. Would you be ready? I like to think so ...

No one ever feels like they are ready for anything. But as time passes and life moves on, the readiness comes.

This has been a process. Life goes on. I know it. I live it. But I really don't want anyone to verbally remind me of it.

I will just keep living the process of going on. It's mostly okay. But I've lost my purpose and I'm feeling like I'm back where I was just before you broke your wrist. I saw your vulnerability and I stepped in where I could. I believe the key is in "doing for others" ...

I have a few surrogate mothers in my life. But it isn't the same. It isn't even close. I'm starting to feel some of your thoughts about the aging process. I know I need to surround myself in youth, vitality and "living". I knew this before but my life was redirected and I never did get around to finding that youthful vitality.

I must live and breathe the essence of trusting I am exactly where I am meant to be. I must trust the process. Even when that place feels icky and uncomfortable.

 I am lucky enough to have most today at my disposal. I think I'll pull out a few Christmas lights. I need light and Christmas may provide that for me.

"Let there be light" ... and there was light. I will look toward the light and there will be peace.

Wishing you peace calms my heart and soul. So that is exactly where I will leave this week's letter.

Love,

Colleen

Dear Mom (Nov 20/17)

Mon, Nov 20/17

Dear Mom,

You came to me in a dream just before I woke this morning, my last morning in your home. Thank you ...

You were wandering around, looking for your things. Instinctively, I (thought I) knew you were looking for your address book, so I quietly put it back in its spot.

I thought you were looking for your notepads and I assured you I still had them. I could put them back. You waved me off in the way we grew accustomed this past long while. "It doesn't matter" is what your gesture and your look told me without saying a word.

A tooth had broken off your partial plate. It seems to me you did speak at that point. I think you asked me if a person could really tell. You did speak. Because I remember you could speak clearly with your teeth in but one missing tooth didn't affect your speech. You were missing the same tooth Shirley is lacking.

You indicated that "it doesn't matter" and you weren't going to get it fixed, in the same manner you decided not to renew your government ID card this spring.

You knew.

Even in my dream, you knew. It doesn't matter. This isn't going to last. You had let go of the small stuff but somehow I felt you found some comfort that I could put my hands on that which was important to you. Your books of notations, your list of family and friends and your pen.

Yes, I noticed you glancing over to where you always kept a pen. I had just cleared off that spot and tucked your pens into a cupboard. You always liked that counter clutter free and I wanted the next prospective home owner to appreciate the clean line of that long counter.

You didn't say much at all. You just looked around and noticed everything that was gone. Your body language told me you were accepting of this change. I still felt guilty but you gave me that scoff and that little wave of "it doesn't matter".

All the little things that mattered so much and more, as you grew weary from a body that was shutting down, didn't matter anymore.

I thought of the way I took in every little thing of yours, that Trev has found a place for, within his home and I could feel the spirit of you within me. I soaked up every little nuance as I wanted to remember it forever ...

It was the way I remember you last looking at us, as we sat together and you started to drift away from us and into a pain-free state. You were soaking us in and trying to remember us forever.

I don't want to go home, Mom. I know you are gone and you are okay with that. You don't have to put on a brave face any more. Your body, like your home, became a shell of what it was after you left us.

My head knows all of this. My heart is a little more fickle. Tears come out of nowhere at times and each time they flow, my heart heals a little more.

It's hard to let go, isn't it Mom?

I'm missing you this morning but thank you so much for coming to me in my dream. These little things mean a lot. I believe if you were sitting across the table from me, you'd recite some words from a song right about now.

All my love,

Colleen

Jack?

I'm back at Mom's and this little rabbit crossed my path ...

Rabbit spotting. It is a little thing but it means a lot.