I can easily, genuinely, and profoundly thank my mother for giving birth to me. I can go way further than that. I can thank her from the bottom of my heart for loving me, caring for me, teaching me, holding me, guiding me on and on. Not everyone can say that about their mother. I am fortunate. Exceedingly fortunate.
Happy Birthday dear Clo. Today she would have been 58.
I have a horrible sentence with 3 metaphors that I considered not to lead with, but it truly does capture what it felt like for me early last week, like about Tues: I was having a melt down and as I slid down the slippery slope toward the mud bog, my son caught me in the middle of my free fall. Horrible sentence, huh? Well it felt a lot like that to me. Horrible!
This anguish has overcome me by surprise. I was proactive last year during the anniversary of the week coming up to Clo’s death. I spent that week in the loving and familiar arms of my dear cousin Gail and her partner Linda in Traverse City. I made plans for the month of July this year so I numbly believed coming up to the anniversary of Clo’s death, June 15, year number 2, would be much easier than has turned out to be the case.
I find that with age comes profound introspection. Some of the questions I seek answers to are: am I doing the best I know how to do? Am I doing/learning/becoming what I came here to accomplish? Am I the most loving person to myself and to others that I know how to be? How can I be a better person? Am I truly loved? Do I truly know how to love?