Mindful Monday - One Year

This time last year, I was staring the unthinkable in the face: My beloved mother was about to die. Doris Joan Alderman Holloway left this world on June 18, 2013, and the year of treatment between her diagnosis and that day was perhaps the most intensive mindfulness workshop I could (n)ever have signed up for. Suddenly, it felt so important to take note of everything, savor every opportunity.

I think of mom every day, but I've known all along that what our mother would want is for us to go on with our lives and be good to one another.

Conventional wisdom holds that the first year following the loss of a loved one is the hardest, but a friend mentioned that she thought the third year after her mother died might have been the hardest yet for her, at least in some ways. I felt a surge of panic at the thought that it could get even harder, but I remind myself that if we make it through one year without mother physically with us, we can make it through another.

I do wonder sometimes if I talk about mom (or her death) too much. I told myself when I sat down to work on my blog post that I should instead write about something more cheerful and interesting to others, but mom is on my heart this week. I'll understand if some readers choose to skip this particular post.

When Bill and I were planning our wedding years ago, some of the best advice I got was not to get so caught up in the preparations and implementation that I, in essence, missed my own wedding. I was surprised by how many friends confided in me that the big day which they had dreamed about for so long was little more than a blur by the time they finally got through it. I'm not sure how familiar I was with the concept of mindfulness back then, but when I heard that, I made up my mind that I was going to be as fully present as I could for our wedding day, which I still remember as truly the most joyful of my life.

That wise counsel has served me at other key points in my life since our wedding. I've learned that setting an intention to be present really does make a difference, whether for a wedding or a funeral--in a time of great joy or of deepest sorrow. My decision to establish mindfulness as a theme for the year 2014 was, in part, an attempt to carry that intention beyond those peak and valley occasions into my day-to-day living.

Grief has its own timetable, and every experience with it is unique, but my central intent since mom's passing has been to simply be with my own grief as it occurs and notice what is happening, inside and out. I don't want to repress my grief and sorrow or push it away; nor do I want to magnify it or offer it undue power. I want to acknowledge grief respectfully and compassionately without giving it license to take over my life as weeds can overtake a garden. There are moments, however, when it's a bit like trying to walk a tightrope. It is especially tricky when the wind blows.

I recently re-visited the display at the Tallulah Falls Interpretive Center about Karl Wallenda's crossing of Tallulah Gorge, which I watched nervously on live TV as a child. In that line of work, you can't watch your feet, but it's also important not to focus too far ahead. There are no shortcuts, and there is no rushing. Once you are out there, if you want to get to the other side, you have to patiently cross one step at a time, whether the wind is blowing or not.

I've been aware of so many "firsts" as they have come along in the past year without mom--our first Christmas, dad's first wedding anniversary without his wife by his side... Then yesterday, on dad's first solo Father's Day, as I wrote the date on his card, I realized how close we were to the one-year mark. There are times when I feel almost like I'm 4 years old again, and I can't believe my beautiful mommy is gone.

Our mother can never leave us completely, of course. I believe her spirit lives on. We have enduring memories and treasured photographs to enjoy. And we have more than that: Mom's greatest legacy is everything that she taught us--and continues to teach us--in a million different ways, some of which I'm still discovering. Being mindful of those lessons allows me to stay close to my mother, year after year.