PALETTES AND PATTERNS

The time change last weekend means it is dark here at 5:00.  In a few weeks it will be mostly dark by 4:30 (and barely light in the morning by 8!)  I just ordered two new Peter Pauper Press - Studio Series ("for colorists of all ages") coloring books, which sort of elevates the whole "coloring" idea in my judgement.  I also have a new set of my favorite brush tip watercolor markers.  I'm ready.  I alternate between coloring and crocheting this time of year while I watch TV in the long winter evenings.  And that, my friends, is how I can tell I have become my mother.  The adult coloring book craze didn't exist then, but she did knit or crochet at night and I thought "What a boring life! I'll never waste my time like that!"  Hmmm....

I've come to realize that any creative outlet that is enjoyable and relaxing is not a waste of time -- or of a life.   She sewed, knitted, crocheted, embroidered, painted landscapes, wrote family histories and short stories, drew the plans for the building of my teenager years home (her dream house in 1966), went to school and opened her own business -- a beauty shop in our home -- at age 43, and did all the traditional "housewife" stuff that a woman did in her adult life in the 1940's, 50's, 60's, 70's, and beyond.  She took great pride in "keeping house" while caring for our family.

If I possessed half her creative talents and had half her energy, I'd be happy.  My life is more of the contemplative, personal growth, activist, and spiritual quest variety.  My nod to traditional creative pursuits lies only in writing, crocheting (only blankets and scarves -- nothing that has to actually fit anyone!) and coloring (within the lines someone else has drawn, in low light conditions, maybe without my reading glasses.)  I've painted a few little watercolors that I like and many more that ended in the recycling bin.  I like to take photographs but don't like the technical aspects of "real" photography.  I keep thinking "maybe someday I'll do something with all those photos".  Maybe.  Someday.

As I settle in to the dark season my thoughts turn to settling into the Autumn of my life as well.  I like to tell my doctors I fully expect to live another 30 or more years.  Yet I know that would be beating the odds a bit.  My plan is to do all I can within my power to keep myself healthy, but there is so much that is out of our control that my other plan is to make peace with whatever comes that I will never foresee.

And I know that 30 years is not that long.  I've already seen projections of projects and plans around various political aspirations and community planning ideas that are that far out and more.  I realize these are plans for others, not for me.  I won't be here to see them come to fruition.  I've reached that stage in life when I both mourn that reality and pray for all these wonderful things to become manifest for my children and their children.  All I can do is do what I can now to help further those goals for future generations.  I find some peace in that.

I don't mean to sound maudlin here.  I'm not really.  I'm just finding myself in a place of contemplation and acceptance.  I don't mind a bit slowing my pace, sorting out priorities, making a meaningful life in connection with others, prioritizing home and family and contentment.

I'll still take to the streets and bug my representatives and practice yoga and hang out with my grandkids and travel a bit....

But I'll also leave ample time for color books and crochet projects -- choosing palettes and patterns that speak to me, that a provide a fleeting bright spot of beauty as darkness engulfs for a time, before the return of the light and the cycle begins anew.

At least, that's the view from here....©

VALENTINE'S DAY LAMENT

Seems like I write about my mom a lot.  An armchair analyst wouldn't have to stretch far to intimate that I may be working through a few issues.  Nothing major, mind you.  I just have a few teeny tiny regrets about how impatient I was with her at times.  She didn't "get" me and my feminist ire, social justice protests, and committee meeting priorities -- and I thought I was oh so insightful about her.  Ah, youthful arrogance.

Well, anyway, the other night as I stood over the stove stirring curry for one (Hub was away on a snowboarding adventure), I felt pretty lonely and my mom popped into my head.  I could hear her say to me, as she often did on the phone after my dad died, "I get so lonely sometimes."  Here's a good example of my lack of compassion and understanding..."Well, why don't you get out and make some friends?  What about those ladies at the church?" (My parents moved 4 years earlier to a small town away from the city they'd lived most of their lives in order to be near my brother and his family; they never really made good friends there.)  I said it nicely, encouragingly, but still.

I've come to realize that even when one has tons of friends, and I am fortunate enough to have a goodly sum, there is still loneliness at times for the intimacy and comfort of a partner or housemate who is there for you, who brings you joy and companionship without it seeming like an occasion for chatter, laughter, a project to work on, or an event to share.

Then it hit me.  My mom and I could have been those friends.  We could have been roomies, comfortable together, if life had dealt that hand.  Not as we were back then.  But as I am now.  I figure the me in my 60s has a lot in common with my mom in her 70s.  I wish we could share stories of having grown children, being grandmas, go over old family photo albums, write, crochet, sew, clean out cabinets (I'd let her cook and bake...still don't have that in common), watch a little TV, go for a walk, practice some Yoga. (She did Sun Salutations every morning for 20 years or more...before I even cared a whit about Yoga, which is now my passion).  All the things I find myself doing now as an empty-nesting, retired woman heading toward elderhood (OK, fine, already there, I suppose) are things she enjoyed too.

I think I miss her so lately because we finally have so much in common.  Believe me, I never saw that coming!

I think it's too bad I've only come to appreciate my mother in her elder years now that I am an elder too.  I was so busy with kids, friends, volunteer work, a career, a big house, a husband.  I loved my mom and we got along, but so often I felt we had such differing values and views and goals.  Now it's all evened out -- and she is gone.  Sort of that Cat's in the Cradle song in reverse, I guess.  That one laments a father who missed his kids' growing up years.  I am a daughter who missed years of her mother's adult friendship.

Makes me sad on this day set aside for love.  ©

At least, that's the view from here....

MAMA

It's well documented (year after year) that I struggle with the Christmas season.  But the other day I just sat right down and cried.

Grief came calling out of the blue when I was cleaning my house, preparing to welcome dinner guests.  Thoughts of my mom came to me and my heart nearly burst with love and appreciation for her.  I wanted her back in my kitchen, sitting with me again, so I could tell her how much it all meant to me; how much she meant to me even when I didn't know it, rebelled against it, was too ego-centric or stubborn or just plain ignorant to tell her until she was well into her elder years and I was starting to have a glimmer of all she had accomplished as a wife, mother, and woman -- without complaint and with an admirable degree of good cheer.

I think of her most vividly at Christmas.  I know now the effort, work and worry that goes into "creating the magic".  She seemed to do it effortlessly, but nothing that memorable happens without effort.  My dad was a good father, but not a very helpful husband when it came to "women's work".  Jobs were definitely gender-specific and I don't believe I ever saw him get very close to the kitchen.  Or the vacuum cleaner.  Or the gift-wrap.  But it was all there, the Christmas magic, every year -- mostly a solo effort on her part.

Maybe some of my struggles with the season are about missing my mom.  My parents' home was always the family gathering place.  The tradition of hosting the holiday get-togethers was never passed down to my brothers or me.  We all went to Mom and Dad's, even when grandkids came along, even when I moved 2000 miles away and flew to Illinois for the holidays.   It wasn't until my dad died and my mom moved to the Northwest to live near me that I hosted the holidays.  It was a small gathering of just the four of us and mom.  The rest of the family was far-flung by that time.  Mom always brought coffee cake and fruit salad for early morning gift opening and always a dish to contribute the Christmas dinner too.  She carried bags of gifts wrapped and ready and was dressed in holiday finery with her fancy jewelry sparkling in the firelight.

Later, when her dementia set in, she seemed more confused than festive.  At her last Christmas with us she has a haunted look in her eyes, even as she is half-smiling in the photos and trying to remain present with the event.  I see my own haunted look of desperation -- the too-wide smile, the kneeling-at-her-side, arm-around-her-shoulders attentiveness,  the attempt to cheer her going so wide of the mark that now I  find the red boa and fuzzy Santa hat I adorned her in to be less fun than humiliating.

Christmas is a time of remembering and my memories of Mom are vivid and joyous; vivid and sad.

So I sat right down and cried the other day, tears streaming down my cheeks, dust cloth in hand, and murmured, "mama".    But she would not have wanted me to feel so bereft.  I can hear her, as I did so many times, say, "Oh, honey, don't cry.  I just want you to be happy."

Maybe me making peace with Christmas would be a way to honor her.  Maybe finding happiness in this supposed "Season of Joy" could be a healing practice.  And maybe a 64-year-old woman can just miss her mom...and that can be OK too.

At least, that's the view from here…. ©