Everything Is Revealed In Exactly The Right Time

I have said many times that this past year has been HARD.  All Caps HARD.   The dark seemed to linger for an exceptionally long time.  I don't know when the light started coming through again, but I can look back and see the difference in the past couple of months.  Of course, from my current perspective, it's easy to say that I always knew the light would come.  But if I'm being honest, I KNOW there were many long periods of time when I didn't believe that.  And it was scary.  And excessively dark.  

As I've also said many times, the dark and I have never really been friends.  I was scared of the dark as a kid and I honestly still feel scared of it now.  I know...the stars shine the brightest in the dark.  I know you can hear your self think in the dark.  I know things slow down in the dark.  But...when I hear myself think, my stories are scary.  I don't like to slow down.  If I can keep a fast pace, I don't have to hear the stories in my head.  I understand all of this rationally.  It doesn't make me any less scared of the dark.

I never felt safe as a kid.  I don't think my parents ever intended to make me feel that way.  I came out of the womb scared.  I'm sure of that.  I was born to a woman who didn't want kids.  I recently spent 15 hours at a workshop confirming everything I have known to be true for decades...that what happens in the womb lasts a lifetime.  This is NOT my mother's fault.  I do not blame her AT ALL.  It is simply my story.  And I have to learn how to work with it.  My second son was inside on me on 9/11 and he came out scared too.  That wasn't my fault.  But he will always have to figure out how to work with it.  I see the difference in my two sons.  The first one lived in a womb of protection and love and he knew he was wanted.  I quit bonding with my second son on 9/11 because I was told very clearly that if there was an anthrax attack, my choice was to take the antibody and kill the baby or not take the antibody and kill us both.  I needed to live for Jonathan.  So, at 5mos pregnant, I quit bonding with Christopher.  I didn't know if he was a boy or a girl at the time and I think that helped the process for me.  It's no wonder he hung in for a full 42 weeks and then was born quickly and dramatically.  A long birth process was not what he needed.  He didn't need time.  He needed to make the transition quickly into my arms.  And from the time he was placed in my arms, on the outside of my womb, angels sang and I loved him in a way I didn't know I could love another baby.  But for four months in utero, he was incredibly alone.  

I say all that to explain that I don't blame my parents.  My mom did the absolute best she could having to face a life she didn't want.  She gave up her life for me and my brother.  She sacrificed everything.  I will never blame her for who I am.  But it is in part because of her sacrifice and me understanding it on a deep level, that I knew I wasn't wanted.  And that's a scary place to be born.    

I remember lying in bed countless nights when I was little, wide awake, scared and paralyzed in my bed.  I remember that when I did call out, I was met with aggravation and comments like, "your ears are playing tricks on you".  There wasn't empathy or validation.  And so I stopped calling out.  And I stayed alone and scared.

So, that was a bit of a tangent to get to the real point of all this.  Last night, I laid in the dark, in my bed, while Olly was packing for a cross-country trip.  I laid there with my heart racing and tears welling up.  I felt the anxiety in my chest.  And there was nothing I could do about it.  I couldn't ask him to stay.  This was happening.  But I laid there trying to figure out why it bothers me so much.  And then I had an epiphany.

I live in a world of death and grief.  I was anointed and the doors opened and I was welcomed into this world.  I thought this happened when my mom died, but I now believe I was anointed early on.  Maybe even at birth.  When I look back at my life, I was always fascinated with death.  I LOVED cemeteries, even as a small kid.  I could spend hours in the old section of the Roslyn, WA cemetery pushing back over grown bushes off headstones and reading them and wondering about the people behind those dates and names.  I would sit and wonder how they died.  I could do this for hours and hours.  Death and grief have never felt foreign to me. 

When my mom died, I held death in my hands. And I thought that's when I was anointed, but now I see that it was my wake up call.  That it was time to take all I know and put it to work.  To speak.  To spread the message.  I didn't realize at the time that my entire life had been training for the work I was going to be called to do.  I honestly didn't see that until last night, lying in bed, trying to figure out why I was so incredibly anxious about Olly leaving.  

Because what really struck me was that when someone leaves me, or I leave my family, or friends, or anyone, I actually don't believe that I am ever going to see them again.  That is an incredibly stunning revelation and yet, it's how I have lived my entire life.  I remember at a very small age being left at a day care for a day while my mom had an event.  I was probably 4 or 5.  I sat in the corner all day and I remember feeling like this was my life now.  That my mom was never coming back to get me.   

I went to a LOT of funerals as a kid.  And as I sit here typing this, I don't remember my brother going.  I remember going with one parent.  Why did they take me?  Did they know I understood?  I can't imagine they did.  But why did they only take me?  Because I was the oldest?  I just remember being told that when someone dies, you go to the service out of respect.  It was just what I knew.

But what if death and I reconnected at every service?  What if each one was bringing me one step closer to the work I was ultimately meant to do?  And what if it took me 47 years to realize how close I carried death with me?  All the time.  It's sort of like Hotel California.  I can check out any time I like, but I can never leave.  And it occurs to me that I walk this world feeling death is nearby at all times.  And I feel it.  It feels so close.  All.The.Time.

Call it anxiety if you will.  I know anxiety too.  But it would make sense to have anxiety if you feel death is just right around the corner at all times, right?  And sure, I suppose you could tell me I'm over-reacting and making much out of nothing.  But the message that came to me last night was quite clear.  I believe every time I say a good-bye, it will be final.  And if I really go deep, I can see how this was instilled in me in the womb.  I believe that death was nearby me the entire time I was in the womb because I think, until I was born, and maybe even for a while after, I was living in both the worlds of life and death, trying to figure out which way I was going to go.  I chose life.  But I brought death with me because it had been so close for so long.

Now, I live in the day-to-day world like everyone else.  I can go about my day.  It doesn't paralyze me.  But I do have a belief that each day could be the last for me or many people I love.  Which, of course, is true.  Yet, it does make each good-bye bigger.  And when Olly travels and I won't see him for several days, it feels much, much bigger because I don't get that closure of seeing him every day.  I don't get to feel as though "today wasn't the day" and have a little grateful moment before having to do it again the next day.  It's almost that I experience a mini-grief episode every time I say good-bye to anyone.  That is a LOT to carry.  That is compounded grief on a whole new level.  It is no wonder I have such enormous feelings about Jonathan turning 18 and the potential of him leaving.  LEAVING.  Good-byes.  Grief.  This is big stuff.

I have said for years that I am, in some ways, in a friendship with death.  As I say this tonight, I realize that I'm not actually all the way there.  And then I googled "Making Friends with Death" and there's a book with that title.  It's based in Buddhist practices which I relate to on such a deep level.  And because I believe there are no coincidences, I ordered the book.  

I want to be friends with death.  But I also don't want to have to grieve a fresh grief every day.  In some ways, it's a great thing that I speak to people as though I'm never going to see them again.  I want to leave each interaction on a positive note.  But it is SO much to believe that I am going to lose people every single day.  There is a balance here somewhere.  Perhaps truly making friends with death can help me find that balance.  

I sit here typing all this and there is a stirring within me.  It is a significant stirring.  There are big changes happening.  And it feels as though it's coming with Fall.  With the season I have dreaded and feared.  And it begins with the same thing it always begins with.  Surrender.  But you know how just when you start figuring out a puzzle or can see the plot playing out in a movie and things just start falling together?  That's what feels like is happening.

I am reminded of the day my grandmother (my mom's mom) died.  Our phone rang early in the morning.  My dad was up getting ready for work.  I was 7 years old and the phone woke me.  My grandmother wasn't ill.  She had a massive stroke and died on the side of the road.  There is no way, at 7, I could have had any inkling that my grandma was dead.  But I knew instantly.  I just knew.  After my dad walked out of my parents' bedroom, I called out to him in the hall.  He came in and I said, "Did grandma die?"  He stood there and looked at me, not knowing what to say or why I would ask that question.  And then he just said, "Yes." And suggested I go back to sleep.  And so I did.  Looking back, I can see several stories like this in my life.  

It's as though I'm looking at myself from outside...from a tiny baby to now and I can see that I have NEVER been alone.  Death has been walking with me all along.  I know for those of you who don't like death, that sounds creepy or weird or just...No.  I know that some of you may think I'm confused and that I was actually walking beside some sort of God.  But to me, there is no doubt that it is death and it is so clear for me that it brings tears to my eyes.  I don't dislike death.  It's part of this life journey we're on and I know it intimately.  I know the amazing pain it can cause and I know the incredible growth it can inspire.

But until this moment, until I could see clearly that death has always been at my side, I believe I felt death and it felt scary.  Because I didn't understand.  Death isn't here to hurt me.  It's here to teach me.  

Maybe it's not a terrible thing that I think that every good-bye is forever.  I just have to figure out how not to let it cause me an unnecessary grief response.   

I honestly don't even know what any of this means just yet.  All I know is that it  feels huge to me and I haven't been able to get through this blog post without a lot of tears.  

  

I have a lot of sitting with this to do.  

And surrendering to what is.

But what I do know is that I suddenly feel incredibly less alone.

Boy is this life journey full of incredible twists and turns.  

Jonathan Turns 18

I was never a fan of children in my early and mid-twenties.  When people would ask me if I wanted to hold their baby, I would always say ‘no’ as politely as possible, but it was if they never heard me because they inevitably put their baby in my arms.  The baby, much more in tune with energy, would immediately start crying because it knew my arms weren’t a safe place.  And thus, I deemed that I wasn’t fit for motherhood.

However, my biological clock told me it didn’t matter if I didn’t want children.  I needed children.  My body needed to carry a baby.  And so, at 28, I planned to get pregnant.  I was good at planning.  I figured I’d plan to have a child in my life.  I would have a boy.  Planning life was perfection. 

Ah…the innocence of my youth is sweet.  

41 weeks and 34 hours of back labor later, a slippery, goopy, little baby boy was placed on my sweat soaked chest and all I could think was “please, someone, catch him when he slides off of me”.  I couldn’t even say it out loud.  My words were gone.  I felt raw and vulnerable and overwhelmed and oddly alone in a room full of people.  The baby I had bonded with over 41 weeks of pregnancy, the little boy I had planned and ultimately wanted so very much, was finally in my arms and no angels sang, there were no rainbows and unicorns.  There was blood and sweat and tears and stitches.  And it was loud and bright and overstimulating.  I wanted to be alone with my son, but I could barely hold him. 

That was his entrance into the world.

Within hours, we started getting to know each other.  What neither of us knew was he was born to a mother with anxiety.  I didn’t understand it because it was all I knew.  He didn’t understand it, but it was scary to him.  He didn’t sleep.  He nursed constantly.  He cried a lot. And I never put him down.  Ever.  I wouldn’t let anyone hold him because I was 100% responsible for this baby and if someone else held him and something happened to him, that was my fault. 

I never left him for two full years.  Ever.

We were incredibly attached to one another.  When I did begin to leave him he would throw himself on the floor and cling to my leg and cry and cry.  And then I would cry the entire car ride to wherever I was going. 

I had no idea he would teach me more than I could possibly ever imagine teaching him.  Because of him, I found myself so I could be better for him.  Although I birthed him into the world, he gave me life.

And now, I want to throw myself on the floor and wrap my arms around his leg and cry and cry as he prepares to fly.

That baby boy was placed on my chest almost exactly 18 years ago.  Where in the world has 18 years gone?  Wasn’t I just 18 myself?  How did I blink my eyes and he turn into this 6’2” tall man with a deep voice and a hairy face?

And it occurs to me that I am grieving.  This has been an incredible year of grief for me.  My dad died almost 11 months ago.  The anniversary of his death is approaching and I feel it coming.  I thought that’s why I’ve been sick.  I thought that’s why I have been crying every day.  I thought that’s why my lungs feel so heavy.  And then I was standing in the shower one morning and it was as though the universe smacked me on the head and said, “Hey…your baby is turning 18.” 

My baby is turning 18.

He’ll officially be an adult.  We came home from Victoria to find his Selective Service registration in the mail.  Happy Birthday kid.  :o  He will vote in his first Presidential Election (quite a first journey into politics this year).  He can get his own credit.  He can book his own hotel room.  He can buy a lottery ticket.  He can serve on a jury.  He can buy cigarettes (please don’t smoke, my son).  He can purchase porn (please don’t think that’s what sex is all about).  Effectively, he can do whatever he wants.  And my job now is to completely let him go.

Surrender.

There it is again.  That damn word that repeats over and over and over in my life.

I need to surrender to the grief that washes over me as I try to come to terms with being no one’s daughter anymore.  I need to surrender to the grief of soon being the mother to all adults.  This is journey number one into that foray.  Will it be any easier in three years when the last baby I bore turns 18?

What does it mean to be the mother of adults?

I don’t know.  I only know that he will teach me.

As I sit here sobbing at my keyboard, feeling the combined grief and pride, 18 years in the making, wash over me, I find this quote from a book called “The Secret Love of Sons: How We Men Feel About Our Mothers and Why We Never Tell”:

“The relationship is a double-crossover, combining all the closeness and distance between men and women  with all the links and gaps between parents and children. On the one hand, our mothers are our most irrelevant onlookers, since no matter what crooked and climbing paths we take in life, we will never be moms. On the other hand, mothers are our first and oldest friends, the coholders of an intimacy that will not be equaled for the rest of our lives. Being a son involves a deft sleight of hand, as he must swallow his deep attachment to his mother in order to fend for himself and thus please her. The mother of a son has job that's even more challenging: to prepare and rehearse her child for manhood, the . . .  crowded party to which she is never invited. Given the unique push and pull between sons and mothers, it's no wonder that our treatment of mothers is extreme. The most soft-spoken homebody will lash out ferociously against his mom; the very toughest guys among us turn to mush in her presence. . . . Men treat their mothers more callously and more tenderly than anyone else they know. . . . We want them off our backs and let them under our skins, but we very rarely tell them what's on our minds--even, and especially, when our thoughts dwell on our mothers themselves.”

Yes.  That feels about right. 

Nothing is changing here.  Tomorrow at 18y1d, it will look the same as today, but my role feels as though it has changed immensely.  It’s hands-off from here on out.  I’ve been working on that for years, but now it’s all in.  I’ll always be here if he needs me (and he still does…you know for things like food and housing and to pay for random stuff ;) ), but I have to back off and let him find his way, which means watching him fall, over and over.  Just like I did when he was learning to walk. 

It is, and has always been, about surrender.  About 17 ½ years ago, I found myself walking the halls in the middle of the night with a screaming baby.  I was 6 months into motherhood and I was confused and exhausted and on this night in particular, quite angry.  And then, I had an epiphany, from whomever or whatever it is you may believe in.  It told me, “Kelli, one day 16/17/18 years from now, you’re going to still be up in the middle of the night.  You’re going to be waiting for this baby to come home.  Hold him now.” And I sat down in a chair and cried and held and rocked that baby tight in my arms.  I knew that message was right.  And it is what got me through many long nights after that one.  I can’t hold him in my arms anymore and rock away his tears and his struggles.  I can’t protect him from all that life is going to throw at him.  I can only believe I’ve given him some of the tools he needs to survive.  I didn’t have half the tools he has and I’ve made it this far. Although I’d love for him to struggle less than I have.

But, I surrender to what is and what will be.  Because that’s all there is to do now.

I don’t have to like it.  And I’m going to cry a lot today (not in front of him).  And I’m not going to do it perfectly.  But I am going to surrender. 

I never knew what love was until he was given to me.  And now to love him the best, I must let him go.