The first time I noticed the the anvil-heavy weight in my chest had lightened was when I was standing at the stove stirring gravy.
Slowly move the spoon back and forth, back and forth, then once around the pan, resume back and forth, back and forth and again around the rim. Suddenly I realized that my mind had slipped into the past and I was thinking of Mom and smiling.
Both as a child and as an adult, I spent countless moments at her stove, stirring and stirring.
My job was to stir the gravy; hers was to say to me, “Is it getting thick? Don’t let it stick and be sure to get the corners (in a round pan!).” Then she’d say, “Here, let me feel. Okay, I think it’s about ready. You know, honey, the secret to good gravy is in the stirring.”
Without fail, I felt proud.
The second instance when I recently tuned into a lack of heaviness was while I ironed a shirt. Let’s be honest. I inherited a tremendous dislike for ironing from my mom. So what was the deal? As with the gravy stirring, I found myself smiling and actually enjoying the task.
Here’s what I’ve determined: Without my permission, both activities allowed my mind to release all the stress of the last year and especially the last few weeks since Mom’s death. I was completely present to the acts of stirring gravy and ironing.
The awareness brought an understanding that at least for now, my grief needs to be tended by simple tasks, preferably one at a time. After the realization, I was able to sit at my desk and complete several routine items that I’d been unable to process because I was trying to do them all at once.
Until that afternoon, the heavy grief prevented me from concentrating on anything for more than a few minutes. This from the life-long, Type A, multi-tasking, go-go-go, check-it-off-the-list me. I’ve spent a lifetime chopping my brain into singularly-focused segments and then expecting all the segments to sing in three-part harmony.
I can’t operate that way anymore. I keep trying and grief holds me back. I seem to mentally shut down when something becomes overly complicated. And that’s just the way it is, for now.
Funny how B Here Today has taken on a new meaning. I’m sure that at some point in the future I’ll be back to my old juggling self, but these days find me focused on one simple thing at a time.
I think Mom would approve.
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Shortly after I moved to Texas, I met Lilly, a formerly feral cat who was living a luxurious farm life as the resident barn cat at the Manor, aka, Tender Acres. She arrived by way of Barn Cats, Inc., based in North Dallas. I didn’t know (probably because I never spent extended time in the country) that organizations exist with a mission to save the lives of wild cats, strays, and throwaway domesticated cats and kittens by placing them in safe, barn homes.
Hanging out at the Manor offered opportunity to watch Lilly prowl the grounds and to spend time pondering the life of a barn cat. It’s a pretty sweet gig for Lilly, considering she was rescued from a life of abandonment or abuse.
Hmmm. Sounds an awful lot like the stories of many folks sitting around recovery tables.
Like the recovering alcoholic or addict, Lilly’s new life wasn’t an easy one. Her adjustment period
included being caged for a couple of weeks after arrival at her barn home. Can you imagine her fear of the unknown? Everything in her world was different and she had no say or control in her initial care. And, because she was caged, she was powerless to care for herself.
Sights, sounds, smells, her former way of life was gone and although she may have been grateful (if cats feel gratitude), it was probably hard to not resent her circumstances and the hands that were there to help her.
For two weeks, all she did was wait for something to change. She probably gradually, and slowly, relaxed but remained anxious, knowing intuitively that she was waiting for something.
Finally, her cage door opened and she was free to explore her new world. Did she bolt out and disappear or tentatively ease out of the cage, wary and wondering but curious and willing to give it a shot?
Over time and with human voices and interaction, she began to build trust and to adjust to her new kingdom.
Lilly was a queen at the Manor. She might be spotted sprawled across the round rug at the front door, curled up on a chaise lounge by the pool, weaving her way through the vegetable garden or sauntering across the barn floor meowing for her two-a-day Fancy Feast feedings.
I’m pretty certain that Lilly didn’t care whether she had the label of barn cat; in fact, she probably didn’t care about much of anything. I’m also fairly certain that Lilly had no idea that she had a purpose; she just went about her business. Her contribution to life at the Manor went far beyond that of keeping the rodent population at bay. She had an easiness about her, a sense of peace that was enviable.
Lilly comforted me many times when I felt inconsolable. She befriended me and welcomed me into her world with no complaint or judgment. At a time when I knew few humans in my new home state, she was a companion who let me just be me. I learned a bit of the ability to just be by watching her.
You may notice that I’m writing about Lilly in the past tense. I learned not long ago that Lilly now has a heavenly barn home. She disappeared one day, presumably taken by a raccoon or a coyote.
Death by a predator is an inherent risk for a barn cat. I miss her when I visit the Manor. She lives on, though, in the hot summer breeze and the star-tossed sky and in hearts in need of healing.
To learn more about barn cats, visit http://www.barncats.org/index.php.
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Tossed by a stiff breeze, she maneuvered her landing with resolute precision.
As her delicate legs, no wider than a hair, glued her in place,
She arched her delicate wings at me.
Hello.
I held my breath, awestruck that she had spoken to me.
Of all the creatures in the universe, at this exact moment, a windswept butterfly chose to speak to me.
How should I respond?
A simple, “hi” seemed mundane, but how does one undertake a conversation with a butterfly?
Fearing my silence would drive her away, I spoke.
Hello there.
Then, feeling inept, I said,
You’re beautiful.
Thank you, was her reply.
The perception of external beauty is reflected from within, I read in the graceful movement of her wings.
How is it you fly on such a blustery day? I asked.
You’re so fragile; why does the wind not tear you apart?
A wing rose as she turned a half-circle to the right.
I felt her chuckle, amused by her windblown, yet much more solid companion.
It’s simple really, she said. I wait, patiently mind you, for the right current.
Then, I ride it, ever mindful of turning into, not away from, the flow.
Suddenly, the wind shifted and I sensed her departure was imminent.
I knew a part of me would fly with her.
I voiced this to my new friend.
I swear I saw her smile.
Of course, she said. And a part of me will go with you.
The nature of life is to form a bond wherever we go.
We give in order to receive the bond.
Too often, her wings spoke, we fail to give and thus miss a grand opportunity to enrich the universe.
So, continue your journey, my friend, and when you think of me again, think of the giving, and we shall both be blessed.
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A flatbed truck full of brand new bricks passed in front of the loft this morning. I noticed yesterday evening that there were several areas along the three- or four-block stretch of walkway where old, uneven bricks had been torn out.
Having stubbed my toe and stumbled over cattiwampus bricks (that’s a Mom description that means askew), I’m grateful for the installation of a smoother walkway.
Seeing the bricks and knowing they’ll be placed to evenly connect one area to another, sends me on a time travel back nearly 20 years.
In my early days of sobriety, as I was literally counting the days as they added up, I was not praying so well. I remember feeling guilty for feeling good yet I didn’t know how to adequately express my gratitude to the God that I didn’t really understand. I worried about my lack of understanding around the God thing.
My solution was to build a brick road to God.
Each night, after maintaining sobriety for that day, I visualized placing a brick along a pathway that would eventually connect with God. I didn’t know how many bricks that would take but days passed and I found myself placing the 23rd, 42nd, 65th and up into triple digits.
My theory was similar to what the bricklayers will do here–by laying one brick down by another and then adding another, both sides will eventually join. I intuitively knew that if I put enough bricks into place, day by day, brick by brick, God and I would eventually hook up.
I can’t remember how many bricks were needed for that to happen. At some point I lost count. But I found what mattered.
I really need the God of my understanding today. Mom has been gone for four weeks today and I am grateful for God’s presence. I can feel it in the sunshine and rainbows and cat purrs.
I feel God’s presence in the smile of a stranger, an energetic encounter with a colleague and a sweet note from a friend.
Today, God’s presence feels like Mom is with me too and my mental picture of us skipping across the brick walkway, like we used to do when I was a little girl, is a happy one.
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I just read a Grapevine article that reminisced about the chill wind that blows through the gaping holes in many of us. I know this feeling is often attributed to alcoholics and addicts nearing their bottoms, but I have to wonder if others feels it—the desperate aloneness, no ambitions, just day-to-day plodding through an empty, endless life.
Yes, I’ve been there. Most in my circle have. Sobriety and a relationship with a higher power bring many gifts—closing the gaping holes with love and hope is one of them.
I don’t ever want to forget the period that felt pointless and futile. I didn’t want to live, but I didn’t want to die because I mistakenly thought once I was gone, that was it. As emotionally bereft as I was, my ego said, what will the world do without me? I am worthless and I have nothing to offer, but surely someone will miss me!
God has a plan and I locked onto tiny threads of hope as only the desperate can. I don’t believe that my soul was ever completely bankrupt. There was a flicker of life, of desire, still there so that when I heard the words, “You don’t have to live like this anyone,” I felt relief for the first time in a long, long time. God never stopped believing in me. He always had faith in me. Once I indicated a tiny bit of my own faith, a mighty fire began to burn inside me. The chill wind was finally being warmed.
I am grateful for life—a spirit-filled life—today. I pray that others get to experience similar feelings. But there has to first be willingness to begin to surrender the past in order to be cleansed and prepared for the peace and contentment that will surely follow.
In the midst of trauma, I can allow my spiritual filter to not let negative, emotionally-charged situations get through to my center. In the hollowness of grief, I can simply be aware that God Is, and trust the process of taking one step after another. In the center of my being, I can feel my being-ness and know that love is my bedrock. I am never alone.
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In July of 2009, I had an epiphany. For about a month prior, I was emotionally distraught, increasingly depressed and having serious thoughts of drinking again (after 18 years of sobriety).
I struggled to wrap my arms around what could possibly be wrong with me. I had all the trappings of a good life, one others would love to emulate--great job, dream house, traveling for a living, a life mate . . . the list goes on. 
