Blessing In Disguise

My Mom died in October of last year. I don’t think about the actual dying part of it too much. That’s the truth. I don’t cry and I haven’t cried. It’s not that I didn’t like her. Quite the opposite, in fact. I just don’t like thinking about her being gone. So, I don’t.

I sometimes wish I was more like the old black-veiled Italian or Arab women keening during their moments of loss. But that is not something I can force. If it comes? It will come.

In the meantime, I will write about it and share my experiences. Maybe it will help someone.

The past two years have been me in “business mode.” Overseeing healthcare (that is an education in itself), financial wrangling and clearing out a house that contained fifty plus years of love and living.

What did I learn?

That I was blessed in so many ways.

My mother was alive (and clear-headed) when I started dismantling my childhood home. This process had to be started. Not because we thought my Mom would die. But because we thought she would live. The cost of private pay, at nearly 500.00 USD per day, in the nursing facility was quickly draining my parents’ life savings. The house had to go.

The place where I grew up and the place where, as an older adult, I spent months with my own children. 😦

So, I did it in my usual way. Determined. Slow. Methodical in a crazy sort of way. Sometimes steered by mood or weather. Maybe one day I focused on her bedroom. Another day the back shed. The bathroom. Filing cabinet. Christmas decorations under the cellar stairs. Luggage area. Dad’s workbench. Some days a little of all of it. Like a bird, in Spring, gathering twigs from every area for their nest.

My mother had no secrets from me. That I know. When I was gathering documentation for genealogy years ago I was prying (let’s say inquisitive) into everything. She said, “I have no secrets from you. Look at the files, paper, etc. Whatever you want. You are welcome to it.” So there weren’t many surprises. I knew my family history. I knew who bought her this jewelry box. Where this painting was purchased. That this was my grandfather’s desk. That these two trunks arrived from Ireland with my immigrant grandparents. My grandmother’s costume jewelry.

But if I didn’t know what something was I would just bring it to the nursing home and ask her. This was a blessing.

One day, I brought a yellowing, off-white piece of flat, oddly shaped cloth. I had NO idea what it was. She took one look and said, “That is my nursing cap.”

Ahhh, I had to imagine it folded together (like origami) and freshly starched. As they did back in the day.

We had some laughs. One day I had a go at her bureau. Found panty hose, slips (a piece of lingerie women used under their dresses and skirts for a smooth look and obscuring of sorts) and pink, plastic hair curlers. So, I would visit her and ask, “Mom, when was the last time you actually wore a slip?” And we laughed.

Or “When did you last put your hair in curlers with some Dippity-Do gel and pink hair tape?” And we laughed.

I gave away all the things she didn’t use and would never use again. After we talked and laughed.

One day I found something in her top drawer and was a bit startled. It was a small plastic baggie. No, not a secret stash of pot! It looked like a row of teeth! Or more like a row of fillings! My mom, the axe murderer, with her kill trophies. Sigh. I knew she was too good to be true.

What is it? Who saves something like this?

So, I immediately asked her about it. “Mom, found something weird today. Not sure what to make of it.” She looked puzzled for a minute or so and then she remembered.

It was removed during some of her dental work. The dentist told her it had gold in it and she should save it.

So, that’s my inheritance. Possible traces of a precious metal in bridge work.

And we laughed.

Cleaning out the house on my own was a long and arduous process. I could have done it sooner and sold the house quicker but for my own sense of well-being and fear of burnout I plodded along slowly.

This provided me with many moments of levity and not just “run of the mill” conversations with my mother. It was a thoughtful dissolving of home and hearth. Not a metal dumpster in her driveway where her belongings would be trashed forty-eight hours after she was gone.

What usually happens when a person dies, if they are in their own home, is that the loved ones/relatives take time from work or their lives for the associated funeral activities. They do the right thing. They show up, take care of immediate arrangements and support each other.

But the looming house filled with a lifetime of accumulation? No one has time for this. They can’t afford the time away from their workplace or their families. Hence the dumpsters/trash receptacles in the yard.

And the baby will get thrown out with the bathwater.

If you are currently in this position or see yourself in this situation sometime in the future. What can you do now? It can seem so overwhelming.

Hopefully, this reminder will help. A phrase said to have been coined by Desmond Tutu.

How do you eat an elephant?

One bite at a time.

Maybe when you are visiting an aging parent sit down with photo albums and ask, “Who is this person?” Write down the information on the back.

Maybe help the parent clear out old clothes or belongings. Or go through papers/documents together and understand the filing system. Folks of a certain generation tend to hold on to a lot of paper. Assure them they will not be audited thirty years later. LOL. Maybe look in the back shed to see what is no longer needed or being utilized. Like a lawn mower, hedge clippers and snow blower? Check the seasonal decorations. Are they being used? If not could someone else actually need them?

These things can all be done little by little. Break it down into small chunks to avoid being overloaded.

I never thought I would be blessed during a process that would ultimately end with the loss of my mother.

But I was.

Looking back, I was so fortunate. I touched everything that she touched. I touched everything. We talked and laughed.

I saw my mother every day. Now I am no longer able to talk and laugh with her. I miss her. Every single day.

Every moment with my Mom was a true blessing.

Read Full Post »

Today

I was at a funeral Mass yesterday. On a rainy, gloomy day totally befitting a funeral.

It was a farewell to an old neighbor. Many of my childhood memories are still locked into my brain but the people are leaving this earth. In my case, in these past twelve months, they are leaving rather quickly.

I’ve never been a fan of the priest who said the Mass. But it’s not all about me. I listened with an open mind.

At first, I did not like what appeared to be an actual reading of the obituary. Look, we all read it in the paper. Or knew this information already.

To be fair, two parishes combined and this priest is now overseeing both. And he was from the other parish.

Again, no one was lining up asking me to say the Mass.

He did personalize after the first few minutes. Whew. Did say that Billy was “other-centered.”

I kept my ears open. And I left with a message.

He took the opportunity (smart move) to welcome folks who may not have entered the doors of a church in awhile. Included non-Catholics. And non-Christian. Grouped under the “faith” umbrella.

The priest continued. Shared Matthew 25:35-40 from memory.

“For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in,  I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me, I was in prison and you came to visit me.”

He said this is how we will be judged in the end. Didn’t dwell on anything except this. Never mentioned our misdeeds of the past.

Today.

He said it would be a wonderful thing if we left this funeral with our life changed. Like today is the day. We could say, “My life changed on the day of Billy’s funeral.”

If we do these things. If we feed, clothe, visit and care for others.

See, if we are truly faithful, we believe that our past can be forgiven.

But what are we doing for others today?

Are we “other-centered” or “self-centered?” Does giving come naturally? How do we change if it is not natural? Do we do these things just because these are the keys to Heaven on Judgement Day? Tick it off the Judgement Day box? What if there is no Judgement Day? No God? Nothing? What if we are not faithful people? Shouldn’t we still do these things because it is morally good? The right thing to do.

These questions are all worthy of self-reflection and meditation.

The priest was right. Anyone’s life could change today. By doing these simple things for others. Moving toward other-centeredness and away from self. But we all have to figure out the how and why. In our own way.

Wishing you all a wonderful weekend!

Read Full Post »

For Cynthia

Oh, my. I have not written since December. The first quarter of the new year has already passed by me!

Lately, I have been thinking of my youth. The strange thing is it focuses on the nature which surrounded me.

It is Spring time here. Truly amazing how everything is brown or gray and then, literally overnight, trees are budding, deer no longer camouflaged and flower bulbs pushing their way from the earth like newborns out of a birthing canal. Just like that.

I was sitting on my back patio at 5:30am this Saturday morning. All I can hear are the birds beginning their busy day.

Spring time is remarkable. I am making a conscious effort to appreciate the rows of daffodils in town. And everything else that demonstrates the imminent arrival of the season.

But what I remember from decades ago is my own backyard and neighborhood. It’s all I knew. You’ve heard the phrase, “All I really need to know I learned in kindergarten.” For me, everything I really needed to know was in my own backyard and neighborhood block.

There were forsythia bushes in the back of our house. I thought they were “For Cynthia” bushes. That’s me. Always putting a random consonant in where it just doesn’t belong. Started that nonsense at a very young age.

These bright yellow shrubs were one of the first signs of revival. Along with the delicate purple crocuses. It was the starting gun of more daylight. Warmth. Extraordinary play.

I’d grab the Hosta flower heads before they bloomed. Sort of like going crazy with bubble wrap. Play under the white flowering bush that seemed to be snowing when the small petals hit the ground. Feeling the soft down of the Pussy Willow branches. The scent of the Lilac bushes permeating the area. The neighbor’s Weeping Willow tree that turned into a sheltering fort. And sometimes its branches used as a lashing weapon for protection.

Lessons learned from my childhood backyard?

The importance of touching. Smelling. Seeing. Feeling. Hearing. Everything has a season. Fresh air is a wonderful gift. Playing outside and contorting yourself-the likes of which no gym will ever provide-does your body good. Being physical can work wonders for the mind. We can shed the clothes of the past season. Playing nicely with others is always a positive thing. There is a life cycle. A well tended garden can bring abundant joy. Natural surroundings are magical. Appreciation for new life. Utter sadness during fallow periods. And most importantly, the awareness that we have absolutely NO control over any season.

Today I am going to do my best to enjoy each day this Spring season is offering me. This is something I can actually control.

I wish you the same.

Do it for Cynthia.

Read Full Post »

Same Old Stories

You can see that I am cleaning house. I have 118 unfinished drafts in the WordPress folder. So this one is a few years old. But important messages don’t change. 

There have been a couple of deaths lately which have me thinking about things. Yes, about the afterlife. But also about the life experience on earth.

If I had that special wand I would make it all just slow down a little bit. I know that is not reality. But I haven’t always been a fan of reality either.

So, I will be writing, I think, on the subject of these deaths.

My sister-in-law’s father died in March. Without going into an old family history thing I need to explain that before the two families became one, Jim had already been a friend to our family. The friendship goes back generations in Ireland. Neighboring farms, ancestral village and all that.

One thing I am a big fan of is family and friends. I was tickled that the children of two old friends would marry each other.

So, I was a little sad at one more member of the old guard passing.

My sister-in-law has been sharing little stories about her Dad. And when I read them I smile. Or my eyes fill.

Here is one. This is important.

After Jim’s funeral we were gathered for a brunch at a nearby hotel.

It was lovely. Patty (my sister-in-law) spoke about her Dad. In a nutshell it goes something like this. She said he always repeated stories that she already knew. So this one time, she asked him to tell her something she didn’t know. It caused a pause.  In a sort of a “What do you mean?” moment. Anyway, he shared a childhood experience. About returning to Ireland as a young boy with his mother. His father saw them off at the harbor in New York.

Okay, my eyes were filling. Again. Like they did in the church. I know. I know. He was nearly ninety. But someone lost their dad. Doesn’t matter how old. I kept thinking happy thoughts to dry up the tears as I didn’t want anyone thinking I was a snuffling, secret love child of this man.

The important thing of the story is this. We tell the same old stories because they’re comfortable. They might be triggered by surroundings, experiences or holidays. We know our partner’s stories. We know our friends’ stories. We know the stories of our children.

But we really don’t know it all. And it is up to us. To ask the right questions. So, it’s not the same old stories.

Read Full Post »

Seeds of Change

I went to the grocery store the other day. Happened to notice all of the Uncle Ben’s rice boxes were gone. Most shelves were empty.

Please don’t fret if you are a big fan of the rice. It will be back! Same taste. Just a bit of rebranding. The company made the announcement that it is removing the image of “Uncle Ben” who is the Black man on the box.

Here is the company’s statement.

“Racism has no place in society. We stand in solidarity with the Black community, our Associates and our partners in the fight for social justice,” Mars said. “We know to make the systemic change needed, it’s going to take a collective effort from all of us — individuals, communities and organizations of all sizes around the world.”

If this really bothers someone or if it matters to them personally-like interfering with a cherished memory of parboiled rice on the kitchen table-I’d ask them just one thing.

“Why?”

As I was strolling down the aisle that day I did happen to notice something else. The shelves weren’t totally empty. Up on the top there were still a few boxes. No, not Uncle Ben’s. Those are totally gone. These were called,”Seeds of Change.”

We all have a choice.

Keep things the same. Or be the seeds of change.

Read Full Post »

Exhausted

Black people are telling us they are exhausted. Of racism. Of having to comfort their children. Of schooling them on ways not to get hurt or killed. Of fearing for their safety.

I’m white and I’m already exhausted just after the last month. I can’t imagine what they must feel.

I’m going back and forth with people on social media, in person, etc. and this is what is getting to me. People are so steadfast in their opinion and not budgeable (not sure if that is a word but I like it and it’s staying) in any way.

But wait, Mary, you are also stubborn and have strong views! You’re not really budgeable either!

That’s only partly true. I am prone to a stubbornness on some matters and I am passionate. But I am budgeable.

Every day I am trying to grow. Reflect. Help. Listen to others who are begging to be heard. I read.

I am fifty-five years old and I am trying.

I just don’t understand the inability or lack of desire to engage in thoughtful dialogue. Or to do anything at all.

Our vice-president, when pressed during a meeting, resisted saying, “Black Lives Matter.” He instead said, “All Lives Matter.”

Leaders have an impact.

My cousin in Northern Ireland (a place once riddled with violence, oppression, prejudice and a minority Catholic population) told me that change has to start from the bottom up and not the top down. It has become quite apparent that this is true.

So there is hard work ahead for all of us.

Cousin also told me that it does no good speaking to people who already think like me. Also true.

So there is hard work ahead for all of us.

What can we do? How can we help our fellow citizens?

We can start by doing something very simple.

Listen.

Read Full Post »

The Difference

Recently, I had an on-line interaction. A Facebook friend had posted a thing about policemen. In support, of course. The tough job they have and all that goes along with it.

I was on a Grand Jury for six weeks and I saw with my own eyes, what the police deal with on a daily basis. Examples might be child abuse, rape, assault, gangs, murders, etc. Can’t go into detail because they are secret proceedings. But seeing and hearing testimony is not like reading it in the newspaper. Trust me on that.

But here is the thing. We have witnessed, on camera/video, the deaths of Black folks (mostly males) at the hands of the American police. Hopefully, with the video footage, justice will eventually be served. Hopefully, we can somehow ensure this never happens again.

People are coming out in droves to support the police. A few bad apples in every bunch. So many good ones out there doing the best they can. Don’t judge them all by a couple of rogue cops.

My point is this-and my comment to the person was along the lines-don’t worry about the police. Rogue or not. They have union support. Media support. Community support. Brotherhood support. I truly believe this. Especially in my state.

They are absolutely fortunate to have that support.

So let them get to work on cleaning up their houses. Revamping policies or/and procedures. I don’t think any police department wants their employees splashed across the media due to abuse or have to experience unrest in their cities. So they are perfectly willing to make changes if they can.

Please stop dragging them into every posting on social media.

I am tired of people stealing someone else’s air time. And making it theirs. The people who are posting the police stories on their social media are not usually posting anything at all about racial injustice. Or they say they support both but never actually post anything individually about the movement for justice in our country.

So, this friend of the friend (a stranger to me) types, “I hope you never need them (the police) and blah, blah, blah.”

We have got to do better. It’s not about choosing one side or the other. It is about supporting those in our society who are screaming and dying for help.

I might need the police one day. And I won’t be afraid to call them. They’re supposed to help me. I trust that they will not hurt me. I, as a white person, trust them wholly. That’s our society. That’s my personal bias. My experience.

So, is it wrong for me to say (and know) that the police are not the marginalized folks here in America today?

This doesn’t make me anti-police. At all.

This makes me honest. Today.

Please know the difference.

Read Full Post »

Positive Change

How can I (or anyone) take action, to help my fellow countrymen/women, in a positive way?

First of all we need to be honest. And that is really, really hard.

Racism is alive and well in the United States. I don’t have to tell you that. Just turn on the television.

Someone asked me, at a socially distanced barbeque, what percentage of Americans I thought are actually racist. I quickly pulled out a 99% and I included myself in that number. The person who asked the question-along with my husband-did not agree with me.

Maybe I should use the word biased and not racist. Everyone has some bias. Not our fault. It’s in our politics. In our growing up years. In our society. Inherently. We don’t even notice it.

There lies the rub. We don’t even notice it.

We need to notice it. In order to create change we need to take notice and start questioning.

Not too long ago there were only white males in power or positions of authority. We (white people) didn’t even think about it. Until we did. And made changes.

I will share a story from my beloved father’s own mouth. He wasn’t telling me out of pride.

My mother, a bright lady, was a Registered Nurse. She skipped a grade in elementary school, graduated high school and was soon in the nursing program at a Rhode Island hospital. She loved her job and her nursing friends. I can still remember one evening, while I was upstairs in bed, hearing them while they laughed and smoked. I think that is probably the first time I also became aware of someone who was gay. One of Mom’s nurse friends.

Mom worked on the first heart/lung machine in Rhode Island. She also taught others. Pretty cool stuff.

My Dad was always so very proud of her. Almost to his dying day, if he was at a Drs. appointment-hers or his, he always mentioned that she was a nurse.

In the 1960s, when my parents married, three kids quickly arrived on the scene.

So, back then, life gets a bit tricky. And my mom was going to have to quit or cut back hours.

Dad told me, that a male Doctor from the hospital actually called him on the telephone. Asking if Mom could still work. Dad nicely and respectfully told the Doctor that they had a growing family.

When I was listening to my Dad tell this story I was sort of shocked. My stomach kind of lurched. I felt terrible for my mom (although she did work as a nurse part-time for years before going full-time again) -that the decision was not really hers.

I appreciated my father sharing that with me across their dining room table. I also appreciated that in the 1950s and 1960s things looked a whole lot different for women.

Did my Dad’s views change as he got older? Of course, they did.

Why?

Because people took notice and things changed for women.

But how many years had passed before someone noticed?

Now is the time for all of us to pay attention and listen.

Most importantly it is time to take notice.

Read Full Post »

Good Spirits-Part Two

Happy New Year to you all! Wishing everyone the very best!

I need to finish up “part two” so I can get it out of my head to make room for more.

So, in the last posting, I wrote about how we (the Hannah and I) happened upon a witches’ tea and a spirit gallery in the Northeast pocket of Vermont. You’ll need to go back and read “Part One” if you haven’t seen it yet. Just to familiarize yourself. Totally random.

We were signed up and ready to participate. It was a group setting. Salicrow, the Medium, would pull five or six names out of the jar and act as a conduit for the visiting spirits. One at a time, of course!

The session, per her numerology love, begins at 3:33pm and ends at 4:44pm.

As I previously mentioned there were a few folks finding comfort in hearing from parents who passed. As well as the very sad case of a spirit whose earthly body left way too soon by ghastly measures.

Salicrow displayed nothing but compassion and care.

She reaches her hand in the jar and whips out another ticket. I check my stub and it’s a match! I’m never a winner. Not saying I’m a loser. Not that. I just don’t usually win things.

So, I have to go and sit in the chair next to Salicrow. My daughter is thrilled. She later tells me she prayed so hard that I would get chosen.

It was mentioned, at the beginning of the session, that some people record the experience because it can be a lot to absorb. We didn’t but I wished that we had.

I’m skeptical. When it comes to me. I am a pretty grounded person with a light-hearted personality. But I am no airy fairy. I’m tolerant of those folks but I am not one of them. It’s just a fact.

Except.

Except when it comes to friends and family who I miss. The welcome mat is always out for any/all signs and visitors.

Salicrow asks who I want to communicate with today. I should have said, “Strongest spirit” to see if this gig is all legit. LOL. But I was a little nervous about being the center of attention in a group.

So I spit out, “My Dad.”

She begins. Says my dad is here. He’s proud of me. She says that he was more involved as a grandfather. That he’s sorry he didn’t play with me. He says he loves me. Said that one of the grandkids was clingy.

Wants to know if the number fifty-six means anything to me. It doesn’t. I’m skeptical (like I said) so I’m thinking she can ascertain ages of people. And does math in her head. I’m fifty-four at the time. But I do try to cooperate because I am a pleaser. It’s tough when you are in the spotlight. All thinking goes out the window.

I offer, “Maybe the year he came to this country?”

But I don’t think that’s it.

Then she is asking if he had an accent (because I said he came to this country?) so I laugh and say, “Yes, he had a heavy Rhode Island accent.”

Everyone chuckled.

And that is true. Even though my Dad was raised in Ireland he died with a Rhode Island accent. But he never let go of the Irish pronunciation of TH. It came out as just T. He’d be yelling for me, “Mary Bet”-my nickname was Mary Beth. In all fairness to dear old Dad I have heard many Rhode Islanders who suffer that same affliction.

To prove that I am not making up this bit. On his eightieth birthday I had a prepared speech (as the self anointed emcee) which included a game, “How well do you know Pat?” This skit included memories and fun facts.

One of those memories was when my kids were little and teasing him. Asking, “Papa, what are the gas prices in Rhode Island?”

They couldn’t wait for his answer, “Tree-tirty-tree.”

Total setup. How they giggled.

One of his six sisters, my Auntie Maureen, immediately came to his defense (even though she wasn’t even there-but that is sister behavior all over the world) and said that the Irish don’t pronounce the TH because the Irish language didn’t have a TH. And I guess never fully converted to the English.

So this party is documented somewhere. And Hannah is the one who later reminded me of that memory.

The session this day began at 3:33pm. Like Papa and the gas price. Tree tirty tree.

Anyway, I didn’t learn anything new from this session. I know, without any doubt in the world, that my father loved me. And I loved him.

True, he didn’t play with us. Except on vacation. Or sometimes throwing baseballs to my brothers in the backyard. But there wasn’t a dad in my neighborhood who I can recall playing with their kids. It was just the time. The seventies.

And Salicrow could have figured that as well.

Anyway, it was all a feel good moment.

When I returned to Rhode Island I was sharing the experience with my older brother. He said, “I’m fifty-six.” Which is also how many years my parents would have been married at that time. Sometimes when you are on the spot you suffer a mental block!

Fifty-six, three-thirty-three and more. A lot of coincidences that day.

Reminds me of Albert Einstein’s words,”Coincidence is God’s way of remaining anonymous.

I’d like to think that’s true.

Wishing you all a year of health and happiness.

Read Full Post »

The Fan

In my last posting I mentioned that I would share some “signs” I’ve received. From my father. Looking back I’d have to say the signs have been pretty amazing. Maybe someone thought I needed “spectacular” to be convinced.

June 14th was a lovely day. I took a drive to the cemetery where my father is now resting. Again, it’s me, myself and I. At least as far as my eye can see.

I pulled up near my Dad’s headstone. Did the usual. Greetings and a prayer.

As I wrapped up with a big amen (okay, it was a little silent amen) I turned from the grave and headed toward the car. I said (aloud because no one was near me and I wanted to hear my own voice), “Okay, Patrick, do your stuff. Give me something.”

So, as I am waiting, I take a few steps across the lane to look at other tombstones. Lots of folks from my growing up community reside in this cemetery. I like to read some of the different names or epitaphs. Sometimes pray for those I know. Maybe a parent or grandparent of an old friend or neighbor. I ambled over to one that had the last name “WORK” on it. Never heard that surname.

Dad used to say, “Hard work always pays off.”

But that’s not the sign.

I don’t think.

Anyway, within two minutes of me asking Dad for some magic, I spot something else! It’s about four graves down from the WORK tombstone. I can see that it is partially hidden by the last grave in the row. And it’s moving!

I should be afraid since I am totally alone. Not a person in sight. Could there be someone out of sight? A murderer? Or possibly a street urchin?

There is some type of fanning motion. Back and forth. What on earth? A geisha in the midst of a fan ceremony?

I start toward the grave to investigate. The thing starts to move away from the tombstone! I am hot on its trail. Not a bit afraid.

Mystery solved.  Tom the turkey just taking things slow on a sunny afternoon.

The turkey spirit animal is a symbol of abundance. It is an encouragement to celebrate your resources that nourish your physical, emotional, and spiritual aspects. The turkey symbolism brings the message of unlocking the richness of your life so that you can appreciate everything.

Thanks, Dad. Miss and love you.

 

Read Full Post »