There’s a storm rolling over us right now.
God, does it sound gorgeous.
At my feet my little dog sits, her eyes slowly drifting to sleep, eyelids heavy and half open.
Rain smacks against our roof. Thunder claps.
The birds still keep tweeting.
I’ve got the windows open, despite the storm, and my little family basks in the dewey light of spring. Toes splayed out on our worn comforter we sit with devices on our laps. These are the things gratitude is made of.
Social media is full of messages of motherhood today. I know the national holiday holds significance for women all over the country. I’m touched and feel tender from the shift happening on the internet.
The shift towards real.
So many of these posts exclaim an appreciation and understanding of how holidays, while meant to celebrate, can also exclude. For the women longing to be mothers, those estranged from their mothers or their own children. For those who kissed weary lashes and watched last breaths exit those beautiful bodies ready to be done.
Today, some men and women and children wonder and hurt and pray crying out, “F Mother’s Day”.
Thankful to those who see those who are yelling or are perhaps banging their fists silently against their own hearts.
I spent Mother’s Day weekend with my grandma and my mom in a hospital room. Grandma’s fine – had to have a few procedures done and was released earlier today. Our plans of champagne and hollandaise got replaced with jello and apple juice in small plastic cups.
I showed up. I sat in the blue chair with plastic that crinkled each time I moved my legs. From the corner I watched as caring nurses attentively gave their time and talents to Grandma. We ate cookies from plastic sandwich bags and listened to beeping screens. We breathed in the sacred air. Air laced with love tinged with concern and the miracle of modern medicine.
Down the hall, in the ICU, families waited and breathed slowly and slept on couches in waiting rooms. I did not have to celebrate in that space. Not yet. That space holds a heavier kind of pain.
Losing someone has heightened my awareness and piqued my ears up towards all the ways our culture tells us we should be celebrating.
Today, I do not dread, but I know my time is coming. Father’s Day lurks quietly around June’s approaching corner. Soon start the advertisements for ties, barbecue grills, beer and outdoor adventures. Lowes and Home Depot will taunt me. My dad didn’t like many of those things anyway and he already had so many ties.
I’ll swerve and veer and navigate my own loss as we move towards another national day of recognition.
So today, here I sit, with toes splayed out, resting in the delicious balance of rain, of unknowns, of love. I say thanks for imperfection and for storms and for nurses. For those who have mothered me in a million trillion ways. And for another beautiful opportunity to remember those who live – in hospital rooms, in text messages, in our hearts and our dreams.