From Death, New Life
It is foggy today.
I sit looking out the huge tri-paned window in my living room, separate from the rest of the house, at the magnificent wall of trees beyond. I am here every morning, praying, thinking, reading, planning. Hoping. Grateful.
Since my mother’s death, I am changed. Losing the one person that cared about every detail of my life has crumpled something inside me. Though she wasn’t perfect, and a cranky bit of work at the end – still, my soul heaved up great sorrow when I lost her. To walk through the muddle of funeral, cleaning out and selling her house, settling the estate, and all the loose ends that must be neatly tied at the ending of a life was as painful a thing as I have ever done.
But it is done. Everything is done but the grieving, and I guess that will go on and on, until I learn to live with it. A deep soft has come. Where I was hard, now I am spongy with either remorse or resilience, not sure. The quick anger that used to spurt out over hurts unimagined is less likely to spurt and more likely to sputter, now.
I hold my tongue more.
I smile at the elderly.
I thank God for every single moment, grateful I am not wheelchair-bound, or otherwise handicapped by disease.
An urgency prods. Get on with it, that thing I am supposed to accomplish before it is too late. Make the scrapbook, organize the pictures, write the book, hold your grandchildren tight, be kind to your husband, dance in the rain. Get going.
It is true that in death the seeds of new life are planted.