Anger and Forgiveness - Pondering A Decade Past and Times Ahead

My mother playing football during happier days.

While living in North Central Arizona, I took a writing course from Natalie Goldberg at the Sedona Arts Center.  Of all the courses taken on writing over the years including ones at the New School and NYU in New York City plus various university courses at UT-Austin and the Missouri universities attended in journalism and creative writing, this one provided the best tools to really connect and get in touch my emotions.  

The instructor's words were uplifting, encouraging and straightforward, much like kicking a football into the air following a straight line across the goal to help win a game.  "Anchor your mind with your breath.  Anchor your mind with your pen in hand."  She instructed us to start sentences with "I'm thinking of… " and continue to write from there in our journals.  Some of my best journal writing came out of this workshop partially because it was the same year that my mother passed away in 2005 and my nerve endings were exposed.  There were so many things to think about related to her untimely passing.   Her death was a decade ago and at some point during every day, I pause and think about her.  Here is the first thing that I wrote about her passing in this journal.

"In thinking about the anger over my mother's death this year, it seems that some of that anger is redirected toward my father's actions.  It is not his fault, of course, but somehow I want to blame him.  Maybe what I'm trying to do is avoid blaming myself and facing the guilt deep below that anger.  My father could not fix something that was beyond his control.  When a child, my father fixed everything so as an adult I still held to that ideal.

Mother wanted me to spend more time with her yet when I visited from the far away places I'd chosen to live in, some thousands of miles away; she would push me away or limit her time with me.  She developed some very serious illnesses in old age that required expensive medications and a great deal of attention.'I'm tired now,' she would say, 'Go to your brother's house.  I need a nap.'  Like I could not stay in the house where I was sleeping as a guest in my own someplace or read a book in the living room while she napped in her room?  It just did not make sense, but little did as she grew older and occasionally said cruel things then turned around with loving phrases afterward.  It would upset and confuse me. Now I feel that I should have pushed harder, stayed to learn more about why she felt this way.  Was it depression?  Was it her own anger for me moving when she encouraged me to do so in my younger years?  Why couldn't we talk about it?  

For it was only after she died and the task of cleaning the closets in my childhood home did I realize how very dark and lonely her world was.  The contents of closets and cabinets opened indicated how depressed she must have been in her later years. My father did not fully understand it.  My brother felt it, but he also was unable to help not knowing how to deal with it.  To acquiesce was how my approach was.  Just to go away, do as she asked and not dwell much on it - to try and live my life in a different and more open way with those I loved and spent time around.  She pushed us all away in some respects.  She was a very private and reclusive person who did not share much about her inner thoughts.  Maybe we all should have pushed back to let her know that we loved her, that we cherished the time she spent raising us and caring for us in our younger years.  We should have let her know that her life was spent with our best interests in mind and it was appreciated.  

She sacrificed her own talents and interests to put her family first in her endeavors.  She also put my father above all else and left herself at the bottom of the rung until we all graduated from high school.  Then, she saw her own anger build as she realized we were now moving into other worlds with our own adult lives with their many demands to handle like new spouses, new careers, new interests, new places and things that she was not a daily part of as she was when we were very small.  Her anger turned to bitterness in years as she aged and that was hard for all of us to handle.  

Yet, she also celebrated our entrance into adulthood by keeping every postcard that was sent from different states and countries visited.  My beautiful artistic mother became a dissatisfied person who had few good words to say about anyone or anything despite her religious devotion.  She closed off her mind and herself, despite her voracious reading habits, to anything differing from her norm.  In closing that door to the life around her, her spirit seemed to wither, dry up and was replaced by cold, stoney statements made in the haste of moments lost.  Only in knowing her from my childhood and remembering the mother who played with us, loved us, invented games and made costumes, who taught me how to draw and make pottery.  The mother who read to us every night before bedtime nursed us when we were sick and then celebrated with ice cream or cookies when we felt better as children do. I have managed to get past my anger over her death.  As I remember that peaceful, bookish, artsy and beautiful soul who could draw quite well and loved art of all kinds as a young woman, then I begin to forgive her anger in later years.  However, it becomes a challenge to try to forgive myself for not doing a better job in comforting her in her time of need, sickness and pushing back when she pushed me away.

Not sure about the times ahead yet and what they hold.  So many changes have occurred in the past decade.  These memories bring back the soothing effects of Monet, one of mother's favorite artists and one whose posters adorned her room.  Posters, old photographs and postcards sent from museums that were visited in faraway cities and countries fill boxes and walls in my childhood home.  She loved the colors of the Impressionists and always wanted to hear about museums that I'd gone to and exhibitions that I'd seen.  And the strains of classical music often accompanied her reading and other activities around the house.  She especially enjoyed Bach and Debussy.  To end this decade anniversary of her passing, here's a song she often played when we were together along with the Impressionistic art she so enjoyed.  Rest peacefully, my dear mother.
Debussy - Reverie (1890)

Just a few thoughts on my mother's life after she left this earth and went on to the next place. These random thoughts were assembled into a journal after she died. Many thoughts put down while cleaning her closets and drawers in our family home to try and understand her life better. It is intended as a celebration and examination of how grief, your love and memories can all run tougher. Thank you for sharing and reading.

Vitality in Life, Herbs, Tea and a Pill for Everything

"Spearmint Growing in Teapot
Summer 2014. "
Courtesy of Photoartdb Consulting
Copyright 2013

Mother found comfort in hot tea and thinking about herbal remedies for different maladies, which her mother had passed on to her as a child.  It was something she attached herself to again when I went through a vegetarian and tea drinking phase in college.  At that same time, a diagnosis had been given to me through the university medical center that I was anemic and possibly too hyperactive due to too much red meat in my diet.  So, I stopped eating beef all together during a certain period of my many college years.  This was a difficult move from the family side because my father's farm living was carved out of raising Angus cattle, so he viewed this more as a "traitor" kind of behavior rather than something health related.  Believe me.  I loved a good Angus hamburger as much as the next person.  Years later, it was determined that I was celiac and had some gal bladder issues as well as minor thyroid issues that were worked out early.  No doubt this later finding was what caused the prior diagnosis in college.

Because it was the early 1970's, I was trying to learn more about everything in college and life.  Was into reading about nutritional needs and cooking vegetarian for a long time.  Today, as a celiac, I have gone back to some of those practices in college because it is just plain healthier for me to eat homegrown, organic produce and meats.  My body and mind feel clearer and stronger.  But a good rare local grown Angus steak or burger from my brother and sister-in-law's mostly grass-fed herd is still a treat when I'm craving red meat.  It was great to share learnings with my mother, who always had an interest in hearing about things like my studies in college or what kind of food or vitamins I was taking to help me feel better.  It was a certain vitality that she had in her inquiries that caused us to talk for so long about these things on the phone during my weekly causes.  Often, if my father answered the phone before he even said a proper "Hello," he would say "Here's your mother."  His insensitivity to my calls from out of state colleges or even in-state educational institutions used to hurt my feelings.  One time, I said "I love you, Dad." and the response was less than enthusiastic.  So was the way of men who had children during the 1950's.  It wasn't macho to say, "I love you, daughter."  Years later, I confronted him about this distance and how he pushed me away.  He seemed totally surprised that he had done anything wrong.  He just was not a demonstrative or affectionate person.

My mother would retreat into books or art when she was feeling blue with a cup of fresh brewed herbal tea.  She had a love of classical music, so on one gift giving occasion, I gave her a recording of classical music.  She especially loved Claude Debussy and his dreamy music.  It gave her peace and solace to a troubled and worried world around her.  One of her favorites was Reverie, featured here with an amazing pianist and lovely accompanying artwork to fit the mental images that the music brings:

"Reverie" by Claude Debussy

She also loved Eric Satie, both French musicians of the 1800's.  My theory was always that there were places she traveled to in her mind when she listened to these pieces, another time and another country more romantic and less stressful.  "Je te veux" was one piece of Satie's she'd talk about.  Again, piano music and why I suffered through a few years of lessons, despite an obvious lack of talent.  But the lessons did teach me how to read music, sing and gave me more of an appreciation for the art while my mind wandered to images to paint or photograph.  "Je te veux" is a sweeping and beautiful composition to relax or listen to while your mind leaps through the air with a ballerina dancing to the notes:

"Je te veux" by Eric Satie

As mother's health declined, she became more dependent on pharmaceutical medications at great expense and difficulty in maintaining.  She was diagnosed with late life diabetes, then struggled with gastrointestinal difficulties plus other dietary problems.  Her weight went up after menopause and she often did not feel secure in her changing hormones or body.  By this time, my life had taken me to other states and a career that demanded a great deal of travel and time on my part.  Am partially sure that at least two of my important relationships went up in smoke due to my business travel and disregard for the emotional needs of my partner.  Perhaps I became more like my father in that respect.  But I still tried to maintain a fairly healthy lifestyle with exercise and well-rounded cultural schedule to see dance, music and other things in New York City while residing there.  My mother loved getting reports on what play I'd seen on Broadway or whose music I had heard in the big city or what art exhibition was attracting attention.  While in St. Louis and closer to where my family lived, she often wanted to go to the art museums or do something.  Vicariously, she was obviously living through my experiences.  Things found after her death in scrapbooks and other boxes in her closet showed that fact very clearly.  Still, we both shared the love of herbal teas and still discussed vitamins that I thought perhaps might help her with her waning health or could help her more than the pills that sometimes were conflicting medications that caused more problems.

After she passed away, it was necessary to help clean all of the closets and organize things for an auction for Dad to deal with these aspects.  The plan had been that she was going to have an operation during the month after she died, so I had already arranged time off from my arts administrative position in Arizona because I'd thought I would be care taking and was not expecting to bury my mother near Easter.  One day, as I moved my cleaning activities into the bathroom, there was a large built-in cabinet that had once mostly held towels or sheets when my brother and I were younger with some drawers below the upper portion with doors.  I opened the doors to the cabinet and, on every single shelf, there were rows and rows of vitamins.  In cleaning the drawers and other parts of the house, there were still more vitamins and supplements -- many unopened and some even still in the shipping boxes -- and most of them were expired.  Once these were all discovered and brought out into the open, I broke down in tears.  What had she been so desperately trying to cure with these homeopathic remedies?  And why did she leave them in the boxes, not to be opened or taken to help alleviate her pains?  Only mother would know and perhaps she has shared her reasons with The Holy Spirit now.  And we are left here on Earth to wonder if there was something more that we could have done to take away her obvious pain inside.  Hopefully, the harps in Heaven are soothing her now. Only God knows.

"The Harpist"
Courtesy of Photoartdb Consulting
Copyright 2013.  All Rights Reserved.

Bonnets, Bow Ties, Birth, Death and Beautiful Things

"My mother, father and me
one Easter Sunday
in the Grandparents' yard ready
to hunt Easter Eggs with 
other cousins."

There's nothing like seeing all of the women in their finest hat wear on an Easter Sunday.  My mother greatly believed in new frocks, new hats and looking beautiful as you prepared to go to church and celebrate Jesus being reborn from his horrible death on the cross to save us from our sins.  Then, after church, retreating to the home place for a frantic Easter Egg Hunt with cousins and other relatives before a wonderful dinner at our Grandparents' home.  You can see by my face that the "dressing up" part did not appeal to the tomboy nature of me and the gloves especially annoyed this curious little girl.  But, I wore my bonnet and fidgeted through church until we could get home and I could run with others in the frantic hunt for something hidden and wonderful out in the yard.  Today, these hunts have even progressed to The White House and larger venues where children can share in the joy together, but we seem to have lost track of the reason that this effort was created -- and it was not to celebrate The Easter Bunny.

Sugar was always the major part of these festivities -- marshmallows, candied eggs, peeps, chocolate bunnies and other major sugary treats.  As a child, Easter became one of my favorite holidays because sometimes we were given little baby chicks - live ones - to raise as well as the Bible lesson that went with life after death.  How Jesus ever rolled that stone away after they placed him in his grave always mystified me.  And, the story of him dying on a cross never failed to make me cry because he always looked like such a kind and caring man who only preached love and peace for those who followed him.  He also stood up for those who could not stand up for themselves:  the Leper, the Prostitute, the Sick and the Meek.  He promised them all greater rewards in heaven if they would just follow his Father, the God up in heaven.

My mother and others in this area clung to that religious teaching.  It is part of being raised in the Belt Buckle of the Bible Belt in the Midwest.  Yesterday, my dear cousins' mother also went to Heaven.  I do believe there is a place beyond this life and, if you are a good person who repents their past behavior or sins, that you have a chance of going to that place with those who have gone before you.  This woman certainly was a true Christian in the best sense of the word:  caring, humble, supportive and loving of her family.  My mother also followed the teachings of the Bible.  She truly believed.

As I watched my two female cousins and their brother at the funeral and saw a slide show depicting this kind lady's life, it occurred to me how difficult it must have been for her to survive almost 12 years knowing she had cancer and that her time was limited.  When my mother passed, it was sudden in 2005.  She had been in ill health for years, but suddenly in May 2005, she suddenly went to the hospital from what was thought to be a blockage in her esophagus.  She never regained consciousness, because the blockage was a tumor.  And CT Scans discovered tumors in other parts of her body. Over the course of a week later it was discerned that her death was caused by a rapidly spreading form of ovarian cancer.  I never got to say a proper "goodbye" and thank her for being my mother.  Our time together was spent in trying to sit by her bedside, make decisions about what to do next with the doctors and decide what should be done to alleviate her pain.

My relatives had a long time to make peace with the fact that their mother was going into the next life, knowing that she was blessed and truly a good woman in good standing with God, her community, her family and those who loved her.  Cancer also took her away from this earth.  It also was the horrible disease that cut my mother's life short.  My mom taught me the phrase that when life gives you lemons, then you should make lemonade.  Lemonade is still one of my favorite drinks in the whole world and never fail to remember my mother when I order it in restaurants.  Sweet and sour, just like life can be.  Here's how you can courtesy of YouTube and Divas Can Cook.  Claim no copyright to this video whatsover, but this is a truly great recipe.  Mom would have appreciated it.

Easy Homemade Lemonade Recipe - Old Fashioned.

Author's Note:  Just a few thoughts on my mother's life after she left this earth and went on to the next place. These random thoughts were assembled into a journal after she died. Many thoughts put down while cleaning her closets and drawers in our family home to try and understand her life better. It is intended as a celebration and examination of how grief, your love and memories can all run tougher. Thank you for sharing and reading.

Mother-Daughter Connections

In 2005, one dream ended with my mother's passing.  My mother had often complained on the telephone that she was so bothered by the cold of winter and how she wanted to be somewhere warmer.  As we age, it is more difficult to handle cold with arthritis and the other things that accompany this life stage.  Mother also had a number of health issues as she grew older that became more prevalent and difficult for her to handle.  When she would make these remarks to me about the Missouri wet winters, it was my dream to be able to take her somewhere warm when I changed locales for my own retirement.  She enjoyed Texas and spoke of California to me plus the travels of her family over her childhood.  My focus was on Arizona and moving into the Northern Central part of it in the more rural areas outside of Sedona near Cornville, Clarkdale and Jerome; having experienced it with my sister-in law on a "checkout" trip for retirement purposes. It concerned me that she seemed so sad about the distance and the winter cold seemed to depress her.  Our shared connections were the love of art, music, cultural activities, travel to unique places, books about many different topics and quiet time alone.  Our concerns were for each other as my feelings were that she did not feel that her artistic talents were appreciated by others in our family.   Her concerns were that although she wanted me to pursue things outside of town in a career and further education, she still wanted to see me as often as possible.  Where we often conflicted was that my schedule could not meet her wish to see me at every holiday, every birthday, every event in the family because my work took me across oceans at times and the energy required to maintain my own life sometimes consumed all of my time.  Sometimes getting what you want is not always what you need.

Her true love was the solitude and quiet of the farm.  She could read, draw and listen to her beloved classical records that held a good assortment of Elvis Presley, gospel music, classical treasures and more.  Going through the albums when she passed away was a true trip down memory lane and brought many tears.  She must have had every Gospel album that Elvis made. It made sense to me because they were both artistic sensitive and sometimes troubled creative personalities.  Also, the memories that she often pushed some of us away in her later years as the pain became central and consumed her outlook on life, becoming bitter and judgmental in her interactions.  It always surprised me because her favorite passages in the Bible came from Psalms, one of the most beautiful poetic and loving writings of the disciples.  On the day of her passing, in opening her Bible for comfort, I found her mother-of-pearl bookmark given to her by my Father across Psalms 23 - "The Lord is my Shepherd." 

She'd always loved Elvis, especially his gospel music.  Music often filled our house when we were growing up.  My dad and I danced to American Bandstand in the living room as he was a very good jitterbugger.  We would have great fun at the father-daughter banquet when the dance contest would come up because we'd practiced at home.  Mom used to love watching us, but she was a shy person and rarely joined in the activity even when Dad would come and dance with her.  My brother was part of this as well, jumping around the room to the music.  It was a joyful time in the house.

In later years, my mother felt deserted and lonely.  She isolated herself from friends and some members of the family as her health became a central part of her life.  Doctor appointments became a major ordeal.  My dedicated brother and his wife stayed home near the farm to care for our aging parents, a difficult task but one they handled so well.  In my decision to marry, leave town after 18 and pursue something outside of the small town city limits, I became isolated from the day-to-day strife except when told by my sister-in-law and how difficult my mother was becoming.  It was her declining health and other factors associated with the family caused me to think seriously about early retirement and relocating to a place where my parents might come spend the winter to get some relief from the Midwestern cold weather.  Then, my company decided to relocate closer to manufacturing facilities in Virginia.  To those employees like me, we were offered an opportunity to move or take an early retirement package.  In discussing it with my brother, his thoughts were simple and direct as usual:  "Why are we discussing this?  Take the money and run, sis."  So I did.  And while doing it, thoughts of spending more time with family, transitioning my career into the arts or other nonprofits that I'd become familiar with during volunteering kept coming across my mind.  My big dream was to allow my parents to come and stay four months out of the year when winter was bad in Missouri.  Two acres were bought and a house to accommodate family visitors was planned.  

Mother never saw my new home be built or the one bought in a housing complex while working at my new job in an arts school and planning the construction for the "dream house".  Dad came and visited after her death and became very sad when he saw the views and beauty of the high desert:  "Your mother would have loved it here."  It was good to hear that from him.  That statement alone resolved my inner conflict about not doing it sooner, not taking more time and not insisting that she come visit.  My thought when he made that statement was that it was my hope that our connection was allowing Mom to see it now through his eyes, my eyes and my brother's eyes when they all would come to visit me.  Because it is my belief that those we love do not go away, but stay with us in our hearts and memories.  It is my belief that God sometimes opens a window to let those in heaven look down on those they love to ensure that they are surviving okay here on Earth.  Much like the photograph that I took on the morning after she died while walking toward the back acreage of our family farm to relief my stress.  My prayer to God was "Just give me a sign that she's okay and with you now."  This photograph was my response from upstairs:

"My Mother's Eyes 2005" 
Copyright 2005.  Photoartdb Consulting
All Rights Reserved

We may have conflicts, but the connection of love is stronger and our concerns are only temporary when we hold on to that love with all of our might and energy.  And we are never really alone, just like Elvis sang in one of my mother's favorite songs, "You'll Never Walk Alone":

Elvis Presley performing "You'll Never Walk Alone."

Blogger's Notes:  These are just a few thoughts on my mother's life after she left this earth and went on to the next place. These random thoughts were assembled into a journal after she died. Many thoughts were put down while cleaning her closets and drawers in our family home to try and understand her life better. It is intended as a celebration and examination of how grief, your love and memories can all run tougher. Thank you for sharing and reading.

Why Clutter Can Be Cleansing.

Clutter of the mind leads to clutter in a closet or life.  Eventually, that clutter has to be cleaned out for a person to move on productively. Greeting and acknowledging that clutter can be as exciting as anticipated Christmas or holiday gift left below a tree and its outer adornments to the recipient or just as disappointing when it doesn't turn out to be what Santa promised as the pretty papers and ribbons are torn away.  

The intention of this blog and its purpose came to me right after my mother passed away very suddenly during my family's process of going through her things, the household goods and other material possessions that comprised her life.  To process my own grief, keeping a journal of observations and feelings seemed to help while dealing with the loss of someone who was my teacher, my champion and advocate; but who'd sunk into a deep depression as she grew older. Her sudden death from a rapidly progressing form of ovarian cancer surprised and shocked us all.

The prognosis at first when my brother called me while she was admitted to the hospital was a "blockage to her esophagus."  He expressed grave concern so I started checking flights back home to the Midwest as I'd moved to the Southwest to transition into retirement and embark upon a late life career transition from working in corporate marketing services back East to pursuing studies in nonprofit management. Active retirement had always been in my life plan. My mother had always encouraged me to follow my dreams, reach beyond the small town where I was raised and go to college to study the arts later. She also was the parent that fostered my own love of the arts and artistic abilities.

Hence it seemed important to capture observations and random thoughts on my mother's life after she left this earth and went on to the next place. These random thoughts were assembled into a journal after she died, then a number of scribbled thoughts on paper morphed into entries. Many thoughts were put down while cleaning her closets and drawers in our family home while reminiscing over the past to try and understand her life better and why she was taken so rapidly by the God she cherished, studied and deeply worshiped.

Workshops taught by renowned writers Natalie Goldberg and Julia Cameron helped me in clearing more clutter in the words and thoughts, putting them into coherent content that might have some connection to others who'd had similar experiences. This collection of words, memories and feelings is intended as a celebration and examination of how grief, your love and memories can all run together into a river of emotion and examination to lead to a better way and understanding. Thank you for being part of this journey.  Your thoughts, feedback and kind comments will be welcomed.  And perhaps we can cleanse some of your clutter as well.

What is in a Name?

Once upon a time, there was a little girl whose mother taught her to dream and do art.  Her mother had a very unusual first name:  Lala.  It meant "love" in the Native American language of a woman who lived next to my grandparents in the Southwestern United States before mother was born.  My grandmother Marie loved the unusual name so much and was good friends with the woman who possessed this beautiful name, so she named my mother after the beautiful friend who helped her when she was pregnant.

My mother often told me stories of how difficult it was growing up with such an unusual name and trying to get people to correctly spell her name in school  She told me how other children used to make sing-songs out of her name:  Lela, lila, lulu, la-la.  But mother knew that her mother had chosen to name her "love" and my mother often showed her love to my brother and me when we were children, so it always seemed her name fitted her treatment of us as infants and toddlers.  

She was not supposed to have children, you see.  So both of us were gifts of love to her.  And she let us know it often as we were growing up.  She protected us and often told us how much we meant to her.  Sometimes at night when she was reading a book to me, she would kiss me and say "I would die for you."  And I truly believed it, even though I did not want her to die ever.  She told me stories about how she and my father went to the drive-in movie right before I was born and how they were so sure that I would be a boy - so they only had boy names picked out.  The movie was an old Western that was filmed in Sedona, Arizona, I found out years later while living in Arizona.  It starred Jimmy Stewart and Debra Paget.  Debra Paget played a Native American princess to Jimmy Stewart's cowboy.   Mother loved the role that Ms. Paget played and thought the spelling of Debra Paget's name was so unusual in a day when Debbie Reynolds was a top star.  So, when the doctor came and told her she had a baby girl instead of the expected boy, she decided to name me "Debra" after the lovely Native American princess in the movie she had seen with my father.  Often, when first meeting someone who asks how to spell my name, I will tell people that my name's spelling is the "Hollywood, not the Bibical version" of Debra.  

On the day that Mother did finally die, I realized that now the person was gone who was my best advocate for independence, stretching beyond the small town we lived in, reading, writing and artistic expression - because she taught me to draw when she realized that I had an inclination for it at a young age and always had creative things around to amuse us as children.   Thank you, mother Lala for helping me to dream.  You were an adorable child and a loving mother.  Love as a name always fit you well.  This blog is dedicated to you and the things found while cleaning your closets after you departed from this world to heaven where I hope I get to see you again some day if the Great Spirit upstairs decides to let me through the Pearly Gates.