mysterious ways

In 2010, it looked very much like our marriage might be ending. I was nearly paralyzed with fear and depression. I had no idea what the future held.

Last night, I had a lovely Valentine's Day dinner with my beloved, and today I am gazing out the back door of our little vacation condominium in Asheville at snow-dusted mountains. We look forward to celebrating our 20th wedding anniversary in April.

I cannot overstate how miraculous this transformation is or how grateful I am for it.

We had not planned to invest in a vacation home--at least, not any time soon. We had talked about how nice it might be to retire in Asheville, NC one day, but those conversations had long ceased by 2010.

As we savored our lobster gnocchi together last night, Bill and I talked about how, in an odd way, our new little place in Asheville feels like part of mom's legacy to us.

You see, mom hadn't planned to die--at least, not any time soon. She was "the healthy one." It was dad, with his ever-growing list of serious health conditions, whom we worried about. Mom still had a long and fruitful life ahead of her, with many things yet to do. Until she didn't.

A rare and aggressive form of cancer claimed mom's life last June, after a difficult year. Somehow, I had imagined that if one had a year of life remaining, it would surely include long heartfelt talks about the meaning of life and final words of wisdom and guidance. But for mom, most days of that last year were spent just trying to get through them.

To be sure, we had some tender moments, and I will always cherish the final year we spent together. But mom wasn't checking off any items on a bucket list. Too often, it took every bit of concentration and energy she could muster to do things like eat or stand or, eventually, breathe.

It became apparent that mom's legacy would not be left in an outpouring of culminating insight delivered as we gathered around her bedside, but rather stretched across each of her 79 amazingly active years of life. For mom, it was always more a matter of how she lived than what she said, and that way of being didn't change once she was no longer able to do all the things she used to. 

Mom never told me how to live. She rolled up her sleeves and showed me.

Among the many indelible lessons and reminders mom wordlessly left us was this one: If there is something you need to do, don't wait. If you need to make music, make it. If you need to write, write. If you need to try something, try it. If you need to make amends, make them. Time waits for no one.

Mom was proactive by nature and willing to take risks. It's how a talented young college sophomore from San Diego State found herself on a long Greyhound bus ride to a city she knew nothing about to play in the symphony and attend what was the Atlanta Division of the University of Georgia in the early 50s.

Toward the end of her life, it was clear that mom's proactivity had been a great gift, because it turned out that she didn't have as much time here as she had hoped.

I took mom and dad to the Biltmore Estate two years ago, and mom and I had made a couple of other brief visits to Western North Carolina together, so she knew how much I love the area. On one of those trips, as I was showing her some of my favorite places in town, she said to me, "Asheville has become your home away from home." I had never thought of the city in quite that way until she spoke those words. The thought filled me with joy.

Bill has always loved the mountains. They seem to calm him and re-charge his batteries. Early in our marriage, we would periodically rent a cabin in the mountains someplace for a night or two and talk about the future and what was important to us. I have such warm memories of those fireside chats.

Before I met Bill, if you had asked me if I preferred beach or mountain vacations, I might have chosen the beach. I don't mind hot weather the way Bill does, and I hadn't really spent much time in the mountains. I still love strolling on the sand beside the ocean, but there is also something magical about looking out across rolling hills. I quickly came to share my husband's appreciation of higher ground.

And so it was that we found ourselves thinking of Asheville again, not long after mom's passing. Visiting the North Carolina mountains felt healing, and gradually it dawned on us that the little home in Asheville which we planned to consider one day might be possible sooner, rather than later.

It was a stretch for us. A pretty big stretch, in fact. And there have already been unanticipated challenges. But we are both extremely happy about the decision. Our little condo in Asheville feels like a miracle--one that would never have unfolded in this way had mom not planted a seed with her comment to me years ago and also stood by me in 2010, when hope was hard to hang on to. 

Perhaps most of all, mom's last year inspired us not to wait for a someday that may never come.
 
I am writing again. I journal almost every day. I now meditate daily, rather than just telling myself that I ought to meditate. I actively practice gratitude. I am focusing on relationships. And I am thinking in new ways about calling, vocation, and avocation.

This morning, I awoke to a long hug from the love of my life. He had found the valentine I left him by the coffee maker (because I forgot to give it to him at dinner yesterday). We stood together and looked across our little screened porch and the lingering snow, beyond the other condos and local businesses, to the beautiful green and white mountains in the distance.

I believe in miracles.  

Thanks, mom.