Catching Up

My mom has returned home to Garland, TX, and I am catching up and settling back into my life in its normal mode.

A part of that process of settling has involved just sitting back and appreciating life, what I've been given, and where I am now.  As Tikka and I return home from our walk, I am continually filled with joy at the sight of something as simple as the green lawn, and the flower beds in front of my house. The last two mornings I have also reflected on those morning hours spent outside while mom was here, how pleasant it was to be out digging and planting, mom sitting nearby with Tikka on her lap, and those pleasant conversations.

There is nothing particularly special about my gardens:  the original plants that came with the house have been rearranged, a few new plants were brought in by the landscapers, and I've filled in with pretty generic annuals mostly sourced from Lowe's. It is a young garden; plants need to grow into their space and much filling in is still required.  But it is in many ways a far cry from my previous garden, partly due to the more formal nature of these front beds but also simply because of its generic mass-market roots.  In Hyde Park I sought out the esoteric and the unusual. Here not so much, at least not in front, in the public face of my garden. 

But its not really about what is in the garden.  My joy stems from the fact that it is green and growing, instead of an ugly flat expanse of clay and patchy grass.  No, that is not quiet true.  My joy stems from the fact that it is green and beautiful and growing, and that I have spent time in that wet grass playing with Tikka and digging holes in the dirt, and some of those green things I have planted have thrived and become beautiful, even though others have not.

When mom visited the first time, this was a sad place. The original landscaping of the yard had been terrible and it was the worst yard on the street, but I hadn't had the time or energy to address it. Inside was no better.  The furniture was still pretty much as it had been arranged the first days we moved in, with only a few very minor changes.  The house was still in many ways the house we had moved to so that George could die in peace.  We moved here because our grandson was here, we moved here to be near Owen and his family, so that George could spend time with his grandson, and so that Owen could get to know his grandpa.  Our first year and a half here was shaped by the ever-changing landscape of decline and impending death.

When mom visited me in Knoxville the first time, this was still a house of loss and grief. I was not particularly comfortable here, the house had been purchased to meet a need that was no longer present. Six months after George's death, there were still moments when I wanted to sell everything and walk away. But of course that wasn't the answer.  We cannot walk away from loss; we cannot walk away from our problems; we must embrace them, and nurture them and allow them to flower at their own pace.

When I asked mom to come visit this spring, I told her she should see the house, that it was my house now, and I was happy here.  A simple rearrangement of furniture had moved the place from something cold and uncomfortable, the sleekly modern at war with quirky family heirlooms and antiques, from something that accented the fault lines of transitional space into something more harmonious,  a place where the old and the new met more comfortably. A place that honored the rounding off of sharp edges both in the house and in myself. And she came.  She came for a month and this sense of  harmony held.  Not a single one of those sharp edges poked out to jab at us unexpectedly.

By now you can probably surmise that I am not actually writing about the house or the yard, or even in a way, about Mom's visit.  I am writing about all of those things and none of those things. Because what I have been given in this life, and where I am now really have nothing to do with things but with attitude and grace.  Like that house in Hyde Park where I wanted unusual plants, we tend to think of our worth, of who we are, as defined by our careers, what we amass, what we think, who we associate with, and so many things that really have only partial relevance to who we really are.  That doesn't mean we can ignore the world, or even should ignore the world.  Nor does it mean we should throw everything away and live in a cave.  I suspect that living in a cave has nothing to do with who most of us really are.  But that we need to learn to relax and accept, we need to learn to rely on that internal sense of self, and learn to love that self and honor it, rather than the stuff of life. The stuff of life is nice.  But it is not who we are.  It is not what is important.

While mom was visiting I let a lot of things slide.  Not everything.  I did what I needed to do, did what I what I was asked to do, what was required, but didn't really go the extra-mile in terms of my obligations outside of being here with my mom and enjoying her visit. I am behind on many things, and although they are not unimportant, at the time of my Mom's visit, they were less important and could wait.  I realized that extended time with my mom, extended time, when other obligations could be carried lightly, is a gift.  Whether I accept and enjoy that gift or rail against it is my own choice. 

It seems to me I wasted a lot of time and energy when I was younger fighting against the perceived weight of obligation.  I struggled with my mom's extended visits, simultaneously resenting the compounded pressures of work, mom, spouse, family and community.  I let all of those outside pressures define me to myself, rather than letting my inner self guide and define me, and regulate the role they would play in my life.  I realize it wasn't really my life I was worried about, it was expectation.  I worried and fretted about living the life I felt I was expected to live, the things I was expected to accomplish and accumulate and do, and yes my Mom's expectations weighed as heavily as the expectations of my career, and the expectations of every other role I played in my community.

And so I am grateful.  It seems I needed this time, we needed this time.  I am also sure I have neglected something, that something that should have been done remains undone.  But increasingly I see that life will always remain undone, that nothing is finished, and all I can do is listen and hope and take each moment as it is offered to me. Hopefully, I mostly  manage to do what I need to do. Hopefully, when I fail the slack is taken up elsewhere. Most of all however, I hope that I can manage, at least occasionally, to  enjoy the gifts that are given to me in and of themselves, without expectation, without guilt, simply as the gifts they are.