This Dear Mess

 So the last little while has taken on an elegiac cast for me. Part of me has accepted my mortality and that any given time could be a last time, and having said that, while being fully cognizant of the shitstorm happening around me, I will do all the good I can do when I can do it, and no one is going to steal my joy in doing it.

The enormity of it all weighs on me, not the least of which is a paper due tonight at 11:59.  I’m writing this partly to get my fingers moving, and partly because I have a lot to say about little things that happened that I want to remember. 

Like taking my younger kid thrifting and finding lots of treasures.

Like throwing darts with my crew Friday nights.

Like having a spring peeper land on my head while hiking in the dark.

Like spending time with my cohort.

Like spending time with hubby and the kids, doing anything. Doing nothing.  Together.

Like watching my birds do a preen because they feel safe.

Like chatting with my sisters over group text.

Like all the time spent with all the good people in my life, for whatever time we can find together enjoying each other’s company.

As I stood in the middle of my living room one quiet morning this week, taking in all the piles of books, papers, general lived-in-ness (I am being kind, I guess), I was overwhelmed by a huge sense of how transitory this all is, how momentary everything is, our situations, our lives, everything.  In the end, all we have is this dear mess that is our collective life.

Do good when you can, where you can, how you can. It all matters. In the end, it may be all that matters.

Rebellion

 I’m no longer postponing joy. Or anything, really.

My whole life has been spent relegating things to “later…another time… not right now.” Some of it is thanks to waiting for other things to happen first, and some of it has been waiting on other people (who never show up because I think we’ve had that conversation, and we haven’t), and some of it has been my own fears and insecurities about bad stuff that would happen if…

Three years ago and change I made a start of doing new things because I wasn’t getting any younger. I’ve built on that by pushing through my discomfort, reaching out, connecting—my life as N and G’s mom set the stage for everything that’s happening now.

Once, I might have pulled back, withdrew, hid.  Not now. 

Connection, action, JOY. This all happens NOW.

I’m no longer putting things off. And joy is everywhere. And nobody takes that away from me.

It’s yours, too. You only need eyes to see it.

Holding Space, Grace

 Not going to lie, Elder makes me insane six ways to Sunday.

Even so, his life is a master class in what grace looks like. Tonight, I picked him up from work; the original plan was I would take him to our church for ashes later in the evening. I came up with a different idea as I drove to pick him up.

I proposed another church—one he knew, and more importantly, had an elevator. He didn’t need convincing: that became the plan. He found us a parking spot and didn’t balk at the walk that came with it. We arrived late to a packed church and found places to stand in the back. I became aware of someone looking our way. Elder whispered the who and rejoined “I want to say hi after.” 

He looked at me carefully. “I have feelings about this,” I muttered back. He stared at me. “Mom, I’m asking you.”

I harrumphed. I’ve written plenty about the folks who have ill-used and/or ill-treated elder over the years, and one of them fell in that camp. I’d sooner see them burn in hell than put on a face.

“Mom,” elder reiterated, “I am asking you.”

Well, fuck. It’s not like he doesn’t know why I feel what I feel; we’ve discussed it ad nauseum. He wants to go say hello, and as far as he’s concerned, we’re a unit, and he’s not doing the thing without me.

Also? We’re in church. 

What am I always saying about walking the walk?

So. We do the thing. He’s happy. It doesn’t kill me.

As crazy as he makes me, he has a heart that is huge, full of grace, forgiveness, and mercy.

He can teach me a thing or two.