Untethered Cord / Sustaining Roots

Everybody knows what a wonderful job my Mama did in teaching us how to let her go.  Fabulous job.  Stellar.

She only forgot one small lesson:  She forgot to teach me how to live without her.

Right now, I'm like Sandra Bullock in the movie, "Gravity". Remember that terrifying part when she suddenly becomes untethered from the space station and begins to float around in space like a freaking asteroid? That's how I feel without my Mama: untethered... floating aimlessly... wondering when in the heck George Clooney is gonna show up and save me.

Only it's never gonna happen because George is in Italy with Amal, gestating twins at the Villa.  Screw you, Clooney!  And while we're at it, screw Elisabeth Kubler-Ross and her Five Stages of Grief. Who is she to tell me my grief should have stages as orderly and predictably as a droid??

There's nothing orderly or predictable about my grief stages, cause I'm making 'em up as I go:

STAGE 1:  Sleepy

STAGE 2:  Bitchy

STAGE 3:  Sad

STAGE 4:  Hungry

STAGE 5:  Pudgy

STAGE 6:  Bashful

STAGE 7:  Dopey

It's not like I am a rookie at this grieving gig.  I really thought I knew what to expect.  I was prepared to endure those sneaky waves that try to drag me under.  But it's different every time, isn't it?  Grief is as individual and unique as our love for the ones we lose.  Each and every one.

It's a heck of a lot of work, grief is.  It's like a job.  A lonely, snotty job.  And some days are better than others.

When anybody asks how I am doing I usually say, "I'm okay, I think?"  Then, I'll give them a big smiley smile just to prove it. Maybe throw in a hug for extra measure.

But then there is That Person. The nosy and meddling one. The one who can never simply ask how I am doing, but has to ask, "How Is Your Heart?"  

Most days I can honestly answer, "I'm okay, I think?"  But some days... some days I can't even answer.  Some days the words get stuck in my throat and pour out of my eyes in soundless reply.  Some days I pull up the covers and sink into the sadness.  But on Most Days... I work through the grief like a boss.  

This Sunday is not Most Days.  

Sunday is Mother's Day.  Wednesday is her birthday. 

Though I don't imagine that I will miss her any more on Sunday or her birthday than I miss her today, than I miss her right now in this tetherless, motherless void...  it's shaping up to be a sh*tty week, y'all.

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There is a big ol' gorgeous cottonwood tree in my backyard.  It's literally the reason I wanted to live in this house.  Trees are a precious commodity in this part of Texas - especially pretty ones - and I never take her for granted.  On breezy days of spring and sunny days of summer, I love to sit under My Tree, close my eyes, and enjoy the peaceful song of her leaves.  Every October I am besotted by the spectacle of her vibrant colors.

But without fail - every single winter - I agonize whether or not My Tree has died and am crushed by fear that she might never come to life again.

Yet, she always returns.

Yesterday, I was outside reading  and stumbled upon an excerpt from a book entitled, "Motherless Daughters:  The Legacy of Loss" by Hope Edelman.  It was a moment of sweet symmetry, sitting beneath My Tree, reading about Motherless Daughters... and trees. (Not a coincidence. Coincidences are nothing more than God's way of staying anonymous.)

Here's my favorite part, where the author writes about nature's amazing metaphors for life:

“In the redwood ecosystem, buds for future trees are contained in pods called burls, tough brown knobs that cling to the bark of the mother tree. When the mother tree is logged, blown over, or destroyed by fire – when, in other words, she dies – the trauma stimulates the burls growth hormones. The seeds release and trees sprout around her, creating the circle of daughters. The daughter trees grow by absorbing the sunlight their mother cedes to them when she dies. And they get the moisture and nutrients they need from their mother's root system, which remains intact underground, even after her leaves die.  Although the daughters exist independently of their mother above ground, they continue to draw sustenance from her underneath."

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Before she left, Mom gave us our marching orders.  She told my big brother to "Stay Strong".  To my baby brother, she said, "Don't Worry", and to me... "Don't Cry".  I complained that she gave me the hardest one and told her that I didn't have to mind her if she wasn't here.

And I haven't.  I haven't minded her at all and I don't even care. She's not the boss of me anymore.

I'm the boss of me, now.  And just to prove it, I'm planning an entire day of disobedience this Mother's Day.  I shall cry ALL the tears I want to cry while snot runs down my face until I wipe it away on my sleeve.  I'm gonna buy a 2 pound bag of peanut M&Ms and a package of Oreo's and I'm gonna eat them with my elbows on the table and talk with ALL the food in my mouth.  And then I'm gonna find my sharpest scissors and go running in and out with them, slamming the screen a million times.  In the cold.  With my hair wet.  No jacket.

Disobedience loves company. Therefore I cordially invite my Sisterhood of Motherless Daughters to join me.  Whether it is your first or your 21st Mother's Day without her... I welcome you to join me in crying ALL the tears because our beautiful angels are worth every salty drip.  And also we will eat ALL the chocolate, just because we can.

After our eyes are sufficiently swollen and our noses are shiny and red, we will dry our tears and take a couple of deep, shuddering breaths.  We will message each other (no calls) and ask, "How Is Your Heart... ?"

We will remember the legacy of our angels.  We will be grateful for the deep, deep roots of love that sustain us.  We will reply to each other, "I think I'm okay."

And then... we will smile.