“But listen to me: for one moment, quit being sad. Hear blessings dropping their blossoms all around you.” — Rumi
There was no need to go, no reason, really, to drive for seven hours in the rain just to say “happy birthday.” I knew this. Knew that the trip was more for me than for my son, who didn’t mind at all spending a birthday away from home. We had sent him a card, promised a family dinner over Thanksgiving break, planned to call in the evening. But in the end, I baked an orange and chocolate cake, put Neil Young’s “Prairie Wind” in the cd player, and headed south. Eighteen years ago, I gave birth to a boy. Yesterday, it seemed more important than anything that I put my arms around him, if only for a moment or two.
On Saturday afternoon, hundreds of people gathered for my friend Diane’s memorial service. Diane herself had chosen the music and the readings weeks ago, and then she’d marveled at how strange that felt — both the wrenching process of letting go of so much she cared passionately about, as well as the opportunity to envision and, to some extent, orchestrate her own goodbye. And yet, once she knew that she’d been given a job she never wanted — the grave task of completing her work here on earth and then figuring out how to leave — she set about that challenge just as she had done everything else in her life. Quietly, privately, with thoughtful determination and a desire to ease the way for those she loved.
As the first mournful strains of Barber’s Adagio for Strings poured forth from the choir loft, it seemed that her spirit filled the church, too. Surely, having given us the solace of this timeless music, she was there with us, listening. And as hearts opened and tears flowed, something began to shift deep within me, sadness drawing itself up into a kind of newfound intention — to live more consciously, to love more fully, to serve more generously, to stay in closer touch with my own capacity for joy.
Perhaps this is grief’s paradox — that in acknowledging the pain in our spirits, in tending with mercy to that which is breaking open within us, we are also given an opportunity to undertake the beautiful, aching work of becoming more fully ourselves, committing more deeply to our own true path.
And so it was that I made a trip yesterday that I might not have undertaken with such urgency even a few months ago, before I watched my friend grapple with her own grief over all that she would miss and then make her fragile peace, instead, with gratitude for all that she had had.
“Sounds like a lot of driving,” Jack said, when I told him I was coming.
“Well,” I admitted, “the truth is, I can’t quite let the day pass without seeing your face.” In my mind, November 8 is always bleak and blustery, a day of bare trees, lowering skies, intimations of winter. And it is also a day whose chill is offset by my own consuming happiness, and by my memories of the day eighteen years ago when our son Jack arrived and made our family complete. What solace it brought me, to hand him a birthday card with an “18” on it, a bag of winter hats and socks from home, and a chunk of homemade cake. I took him out for a steak dinner, we talked about school, his college plans, his friends. And then I drove him back to his dorm and kissed him good-bye.
It feels as if there is no way, anymore, for me to be the mother I still wish to be — close by, all-knowing, participating in the minor ups and downs of every day. But of course my young adult son neither needs nor wants such a mother now; he is living a life he loves, thriving, finding his own way away from us. So I embrace instead the precious hours when we are together, giving up at last on the idea that I’m still preparing him for life’s voyage, that I might yet come up with the scrap of advice, the single line that will make all the difference and point the way. There is no such thing, of course. What’s more, the ship has sailed; he is already on it, charting his own course.
Still, driving home alone late last night, under clear, cold November skies, I felt the opposite of lonely. A little raw still, but not quite so stricken. One thing I’ve realized these last few days, is that I can tune right in to what I’m coming to think of as the “Diane channel” in my mind. I listen, and I know exactly what she would have me do — go forth, give everything, cherish everyone, be grateful. I’m pretty certain that I wouldn’t have driven for seven hours just to have dinner and a hug if not for lessons learned from her. And I know, absolutely, that she was with me all the way, that somehow she came along for the ride. Which makes me realize: her legacy is something I’m only beginning to understand. I’ve had a glimpse of it, though. Already, blessings are dropping their blossoms all around me.
Beautiful, Katrina. We are on similiar journeys in grieving and celebrating. My mother-in-law was such an incredibly generous person — like your friend, she eased the path toward her death for us, always concerned about howwe were faring. Now I look at her life — her legacy — the way she selflessly cared for those around her, and I want to live the same way. I fail too often. But she inspires me to keep trying.
Happy birthday to your precious son. You are a wonderful mom.
What a beautiful post, Katrina. Wow. I can tell your friend was a special lady, and you are a special mom. My baby turns 18 on Sunday. I feel your pain on this one. =)
XO!
Donna G. (one of your students in your photography class)
What a powerful piece… my wife shared this with me… she knew I would love it and she was right! I love everything Katrina writes…
I just annoyed my 11 year old by hugging him… he's 5'8" and thinks he's a teenager already. I know he'll be 18 all too soon!
Thanks for constant reminders!
Doriano
Beautiful reflection, as always. I would drive those 7 hours, too.
What a wonderful mom. This is why Jack is so clearly prepared for this journey… because he has a solid foundation.
Thank you… Tears splashing on my desk as I read this. Your words, in your description of Diane's passage and of your own life, help me make my own fragile peace. I can't express how grateful I am for the blessing that that is.
I wish I could drive seven hours to wrap my arms around you. You have shared so much with us and we are so grateful. As I was working in my garden today, I offered my intentions for Diane and the joyful friendship that you shared. What a wonderful mom you are with two wonderful sons. Thank you,Katrina for all that you share with us in such a heartfelt manner. You have no idea how I appreciate your words and the warmth you share.
Thank you, Katrina. Thank you for sharing yourself with so many. Your writings bring new understanding of what it means to live fully and thoughtfully. What a blessing you are.
What a beautiful post,Katrina! I am sorry for your loss. I understand it too well . I lost both my parents in the last two years. I felt like losing them has taught me how to live better. I try, at least. I understand how special it was to see your son. What you did, is something that I would do . My son is 24 and yet to me he will always be my baby, even though he is a independent, and a wonderful grown up. I hope that you continue to feel gratitude and cherish all those you love. Thank you for sharing this!
Katrina – so eloquent .. so beautiful. You get it .. you get the importance of embracing TODAY. I would drive a life time to be able to touch my KK again … these days are hard – but harder still for any of us who miss special people in our lives. Thank you for opening yourself up to us – and helping us all understand what is truly important. I shall keep you close to my heart in prayer – as we head through another season of Holidays without someone we wish were here. For me, halve of me is gone … with my KK … but I know the other half still needs to listen and embrace the 'blessings' around me. There are days that it is just so hard, not so impossible anymore, just hard. With all my sorrows for the loss of your friend .. Hugs, Moe
"go forth, give everything, cherish everyone, be grateful" – those words brought tears to my eyes. thank you.
It makes me happy to read about your visit with Jack. I'm counting down the month until Hope comes home for her first visit since leaving for university. I think that the moment I put my arms around her, my heart will simply burst.
I've just finished reading (and then rereading and then rereading once again) Mitten Strings and I feel like this post is the perfect afterword. Having spent the last few days with you and the younger versions of your boys, I feel like driving down to celebrate Jack's birthday with him makes complete sense, especially given the lessons you took from Diane in the last several months. Thanks, as always, Katrina, for sharing such a beautiful piece of your story.
I am so sorry for your loss. My heart aches for the emptiness you feel without your dear friend. Thank you for being so genuine and so open. Your writing is beautiful. I feel like I am reading about the future-me when I read your blog. I have two young boys (4 and almost 6) and my biggest fear is that they grow up too fast. Thank you for always reminding me that it WILL go by fast and to truly enjoy every single second with them now while they still need me. My thoughts are with you.
Katrina,
Thanks for this blog and so many others. As I sit with my dying mother this fall, your words have brought comfort.
your thoughts on leaving your son to forge his own path hit home for me. i am learning this now as my children have gone off to their lives. it truly is bittersweet.
This is beautiful, Katrina. I can hear the "Diane channel" too and take such comfort in knowing that she's here with us and that there's still so much to learn from her.
I just finished your book and found your blog and am just posting my first reply to a blog. Thank you for your book. It helps the journey to hear your story. Maybe the story of my son being 18 will help yours: Mom, I'm 18, he started saying when he was 17 and a half. He always believed halves meant wholes rounded up. During his 18th year I heard " Mom, I'm 18" so many times that on his 19th birthday, after he blew out the candles, I exclaimed, "Well at least I won't have to hear 'Mom, I'm 18 anymore'" So after another year of "Mom, I'm 19", he has finally turned 20, and I think, since reading your book, I won't have to have him tell me so . Hopefully, he won't feel the need. I hope I can embrace your line that says life is a balance, "a fine mingling between letting go and holding on." And I wish you strength in finding that same balance in getting through the grieving of losing your friend.
Your writing is so beautiful and such a gift of vulnerability. I love that quote, too. Thank you.
All this getting ready, ready to launch, to grow up, to die, seems to teach us the blessing you share with us here—to simply be present, to blossoms pushing up through the earth, to seeds under the hardening ground, to blooming and to dropping which are all today, all truly us and all truly together if we can join you on your wavelength, catch your drift along life's river so fluidly that we are the one and every river. Sometimes we are trying, and that is tantamount to not doing; sometimes we really grasp it; sometimes we really grasp it and are neither on the cusp of death in any given life nor fresh from birth and as unable to explain it as we are later when we have the words but have lost the Rumi. You honor us all when you know, Katrina, that you are the Blossom, for in the mirror of you we glimpse our Selves. Namaste
Thank you for sharing. More tears as I continue reading. Sadness? Not exactly. Gratitude? Absolutely. xo
Katrina,
My favourite blog-stop is always your blog. Your words are so inspiring—each making me thankful for what I have today—each helping me as I move forward to tomorrow. My kids, now 12 and 14 are a joy to me and your books and blog help me to be a better mother. For that, I am grateful.
Warmest,
Helen
I've been following your blog since last summer. "Ordinary Day" was the perfect book for me at the perfect time — we took our oldest to college (4 1/2 hours away) in September too. Thanks for sharing your journey with the public.