a flowering

DSC_0325I wanted her to live, but if she had to die, I wanted her to die like a flower blooms.  The final opening, an expression of brilliance and beauty before the end. I wanted her to experience the greatest joys in life and reflect them inward and outward.  I wanted her to smile. But if there was any flowering in her illness she was a bloom sliced off from her roots, struggling to survive in murky waters, head bowing towards a dusty tabletop that supported a tiny vase. She turned inward, leaves curling, becoming brittle and thin until the silent fall.

I still judge her for allowing this to occur.  A cure was denied but she could have gone to yoga, or Mexico.  She could have sat in the sunshine more.  Right?

Truthfully, I was the one that wanted to flower.  I wanted to take in all that life offers, from the minuscule to the infinite.  I wanted to find joy and laugh and more fully exist in the world.  But I was scared, and instead of facing my own choices or unwinding what bound me in inertia, I aimed to live vicariously through her. Her looming death frightened me, because I felt half-dead too.  If she could show me how to live in the final months of her life, I thought I could find my way..

It didn’t go down like that. She died the way she needed to- surrounded by love, but walking her final steps alone. Now I will live the way I need to.  I’m still not sure what that looks like, but I am dedicated to finding out.  And maybe Mom didn’t teach me how to to go to yoga, or spend more time with my friends, but she showed me that I too can stay true to my path.  I too can walk it alone.

 

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7 thoughts on “a flowering

  1. Lucia Maya

    Just beautiful. Thank you. I trust that you are living your life from your heart, following that inner voice that guides you, and saying yes to following your soul’s path, as only you can!

    Reply
  2. Heart To Harp

    You are on your path, and you will find your way. It takes courage and insight to realize that you were the one who wanted and needed to flower. And it takes courage and insight to come to a peaceful place with the way your mother had to walk her path. Remember your bird vision: your feet may feel earthbound, but your heart already soars.

    Reply
  3. Sue J

    I don’t suppose we could ever truly understand how much our priorities change when we are aware of our own dying unless we are in that exact process. I could see, though, how silence and giving in to it could be more alluring than defying its inevitability with more outwardly positive activities (yoga, Mexico). Especially with something as draining as cancer. It is such an intimate affair to be absorbed in someone else’s process . . . maybe we want to be of help somehow? . . . maybe we want to experience it ourselves to some degree out of mere curiosity or a desire to let our loved one know they are not alone.

    I don’t know if you’ve ever read the book “Tuesdays with Morrie” but in its humble pages the beauty of death itself is so convincingly presented that I believe your Mom did indeed bloom on her way out of the temporary form that held her to this earthly place.

    May you always feel her love. May you soon feel her laughter.

    Reply
  4. Dace

    Death is a new beginning. In every death something new is born. In this case, it is you. Of course, for some death is scary as we all know that one day we will all die. There is no way around it. You can’t avoid it, you can’t hide – you just have to face it and make the best out of the time you are given.

    Reply

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