Holding Tight While Letting Go

It's complicated, this letting go.

Just as I seem to have found a comfort zone in my job, I turn to nurse a breaking heart as I witness my mother's failing health. There are hearts breaking all around me, as I gather with my father and my siblings. We reach out to hold her up. To lift her. To make her smile. To make her comfortable.

My mother. My dear, dear mother. There is no one in my life who will ever compare. Her love. Her support. Her durable, constant, always thereness. My mother. I cannot imagine life without her. I will never be without her.

My father. His gentle strength and quiet reserve. His adoration for his wife of 60-some years. His desperation at not being able to fix this. Not being able to take care of her.
Not knowing where to turn. His love for her is perfect in this imperfect process.

We are all flummoxed. Afraid and bewildered.

No. Please. Don't let it happen. But it will. It's happening before our eyes. How ever do we say goodbye?

Looking Work In The Eye

It's six months now since I lost my job. Think of what you could do with six free months. I do ... of what I could have done.

It's a long time. Summer turned to fall, now winter. I turned into an unemployed woman with a cushion of money to help me through and a lap top on which I sought a job. I cooked a little, traveled some and cleaned out closets and drawers. I reached out to friends for support and turned to my dog for daily comfort and, sometimes, conversation. I dreamed of what I could become in this next chapter, and felt regret for what I had not become in my life thus far.

And now I seem close to being hired for a job that will give me the security I long for, despite fantasies of being untethered and free. It'll be a good thing, if I manage to snag the spot. I'll have the enviable employee health insurance and a respectable vacation policy. I'll work in an exciting business that's growing by leaps and bounds. I'll be an assistant to an executive who thrives on work and has numerous successes in his pocket. I'll be off my mother's worry list and back in good standing with my creditors. I'll be back on track ... for whatever it is I'm heading towards.

I'll be relieved. I'll be motivated. But, I'll be disappointed. Why have I not made more of all that's been given to me? Why am I not the success that my siblings are and the creative person I like to see myself as? Why do I let life happen to me?

Surely there are reasons. I could pay a psychologist lots of money to lay it all out for me, but then what would that accomplish? I already know, mostly. I've rarely set my sites on anything I didn't think I could achieve. I've always tried to avoid failing. Always.

A few years ago I took on a personal motto: Aim low. It was a joke, at the time, but is clearly now a reality. Work is work for me. Not a calling or something to be conquered.

I work to live, rather than the opposite. And I think, still, that that's a healthy attitude. But now, after being without a job for a time, I admit that there's a lot to be said for the responsibilities that come with a job. The structure of the day. The diversion from one's self. The paycheck.

So, I'll try hard to get this job, and when/if I do, I'll try hard to do it as best as possible and look for opportunities to shine wherever possible. I'll be a model employee, a people pleaser and a respected colleague. I'll be The Assistant.

And then I'll come home -- where my heart is.

Hopeful On This Soggy Sunday

I've decorated my house just a little bit for Christmas. I have a skinny, scrawny fake bush of a tree that I bought last year in the week after Christmas -- $10 at Marshalls. It's too flimsy for ornaments, so I've hung a few of my favorites all around elsewhere in my livingroom. A lord aleaping, a feathered peacock, a silver star that says "hope."

I hold on to that notion. Hope. We hadn't felt that in a long time until Obama came on the scene, and feeling oh-so hopeful, we carried him on our shoulders to the White House, hoping, hoping, hoping that he could fix our broken country. He's trying. Trying to make hope more important than greed. Trying to make America what it was originally meant to be -- by the people, for the people. But greed is a powerful thing, apparently. Big business, big insurance, big guns. For some, it's a big disappointment, but I still feel the hope that brought Obama to Washington and I still think he'll make a difference, if only the greedy politicians will let him. Yes, we can.

My silver star of hope came from a friend who was battling colon cancer. She held onto hope as she suffered the affects of chemo and endured the hours, days, months of diminishing strength. She hoped it would all work -- we all hoped for that -- and it did. She's cancer-free now and stronger than ever. She's vibrant and grateful and oh-so alive. She's kind and gentle and loving. I doubt she's much familiar with greed, as she's a person who lives simply, struggling at times to make ends meet, as many of us do. She knows more of hope. Hope that her children and grandchildren can live in a world without greed? Hope that they will know the joy of life that she's found in her battle to hold onto it. She's a star, in my book. She's in that silver star that hangs from my diningroom lamp.

In the Christian tradition, there's hope in the star in the East. It shone over the desert to mark the place where Christ was born, and the shepherds and travelers followed that light, filled with hope. Filled with possibility. Good tidings of great joy.

Now to the Lord sing praises,
All you within this place,
And with true love and brotherhood
Each other now embrace;
This holy tide of Christmas
All others doth deface

Oh tidings of comfort and joy. Find them where you may and hold on to the hope that is there -- if only you look hard enough.

Preparing My Thanks

Thanksgiving eve. It's muddy outside. I wonder if the Pilgrims had to deal with mud on their fancy buckled shoes. And, did they really eat outside with the Indians? If it was anything like today, they were all freezing, especially the Europeans, who wore those capri-like pants and fluffy shirts. How warm could that have been?

Since I don't much cook, I've been assigned to bring a pie for Thanksgiving dinner. It'll be a big hit, I'm sure, since I ordered it from a proven pie place; First Slice. Pumpkin cheesecake sort of thing.

I am thankful, but had to force myself to think a little about it. I've got an incredible circle of friends and family, two relatively healthy parents who are still married to each other and enjoying each other, seven super siblings, numerous nieces and nephews (none in jail or on the lamb),a sweet and loving partner, a roof over my head, a sweet dog, a nice stereo and a collection of great music, and enough smarts to know that I WILL get a good job soon and my life will continue to be just swell.

So, thank you -- whoever it is that's at the helm here and whatever power or force is making the world turn, the waters flow and the sun shine. Thank you for all that I am and all that I am yet to be.

Thank you.

The Kindness of Strangers

The light is going out on this foggy, damp day and as we move into the evening, I wonder what I've accomplished in yet another unscripted day.

I applied for several jobs online, always a time-consuming and mostly empty episode. There's rarely any response from the employer and never a named person to whom I could be in contact down the line. No, it's just like tossing crumbs off the back of a ferry. Who knows where it goes, and none of those seagulls flying close behind even bother to say thanks.

There was a trip to Midway Airport this afternoon to pick up a friend's mother who's coming in to town for Thanksgiving. I parked and went into the terminal, arriving about 25 minutes early -- plenty of time to just watch the people, some saying good-bye, some offering warm greetings upon the arrival of a loved one.

There was an older couple standing nearby, obviously waiting for someone to appear down the long hallway from which all incoming passengers must exit. He was a smiley man with wisps of white hair across his forehead, stooped over with an aging, curved spine, dressed in tan slacks and a white sweater. She was more snappy in her appearance, dark hair, modern, chic clothes and a cell phone close at hand.

At first I wondered why such an elderly couple would make the trip to the terminal rather than meet their incoming person out at the car, and I wondered if they had much to say to each other.

My thoughts were interrupted as I locked in on a young man in sweat pants and a stocking cap leaning against the wall, also watching that long hallway for an arrival. Maybe he's meeting a girlfriend, I thought. Maybe she likes those tattoos.

When I turned my attentions back to the couple, they were talking to each other and laughing. She reached up and patted down the hair at the back of his neck.

"It's just there," she said to him. "Just have them cut it there."

He said something in response and she laughed again.

"The Hair Cuttery, I tell you. It's cheap and easy," she said.

Off to my left, a little boy ran into the arms of the man in sweats. The man didn't make much fuss over the boy, but the child held him tightly around the neck. The young woman pushing a stroller with another child in it spoke to the man, but the two didn't touch, or smile or act at all happy to see each other.

The older couple, in the meantime, stood arm-in-arm, still waiting. I left them that way as I met my friend's mother and took her to claim her bags.

Bottom line? Kindness actually works in relationships, and I don't imagine it's all that hard.