Bitter-Sweet Love

Exactly 90 days ago Steve and I started a journey without a clue as to where we were headed. We knew the Universe was urging- no scratch that- the Universe was PROPELLING us forward, outward, westward. That was all we knew. In faith as raw as a burlap sack we trusted that the Creator of Heaven and Earth was leading us- we took the only step we saw- the only single step we were sure of and lept into HIS arms. We sold almost everything we owned, loaded our car and our dog and our tent and we drove. With no certain course, with very little money and a few camping supplies we did all that we knew to do- we drove.
 Within a few weeks it became obvious to us both that Montana was our next destination. My sister Paula and her husband Rick lived there and they had been taking care of my mother who had been diagnosed with dementia a number of years ago and now the dementia had turned into full blown Alzheimer's. Paula and Rick were tired, exhausted from the constant care-taking of Mom and their jobs and taking care of their 'off-grid' property down a  beautiful, untamed 9 mile dirt road in Northwest Montana. They needed help. We headed there.
Now, 90 days later- we are here. Staying in the loft of their cozy, comfy home. Enjoying fresh veggies, cool well water and the breath-taking Montana scenery that has been called "God's Backyard".

I work 3 days a week in a nearby town and the rest of the week I stay at home and take care of Mom. It's strange that I'm here, It's strange because Mom and I haven't been close for a very long time.  A family rift had torn us apart and we hadn't even spoken for more years than I can count.
When I realized that this was to be our next step- our next stopping point...I admit there was a part of me that was hoping and yearning for a healing to occur between Mom and I .  The child inside of me was peering through the "mom-shaped" hole in my heart that had been there for most of my life. The Child me was jumping in anticipation of finally- and at last- to hear my Mom say the things I had for so long, needed to hear from her.  " I love you. I'm proud of you. I'm glad you're my daughter."

When we got to Montana, I was saddened to see that Mom's dementia had progressed way past the point of being able to have any type of meaningful conversation. I saw only a faint shadow of the woman my Mama used to be still remained. In her place was a frail, weak, little woman who was often scared of something she could never quite verbalize. My heart ached as I realized with a certainty as clear as the creek that runs through the mountains around us, the disease had taken her away,  taken away most memories, names, faces and taken away any chance for the reunion I had so hoped for.
Yea, that healing? That apology? That returning home?   It can't happen. It can NEVER happen. Mom rarely knows my name, much less that I'm her daughter. She calls me her sister sometimes but most times I'm just "that girl".
 I know I will never hear those words from Mom that I ached to hear.  The reunion won't happen. The child-me, crept back to her hiding place inside of me. I wept. I wept for the years that had passed, for the words we'd never said, for the happy ending that will always only be a dream.  I wept for lost time. I wept for my Mom.
So here we are, caught up in a daily routine that is completely foreign to Steve and I. Each day the sun still rises.  I still do my best to help Mom remember things- places- songs. We look at photographs and I talk about old times. I brush her hair and clip her nails and I try to love her as tenderly as I know how, praying that somehow she will feel how much I love and miss my mama. She loves to sing and laugh and be silly. We hug often and I tell her every day that even if she doesn't know my name or who I am- to remember that I am "that girl" that loves her. I am learning that loving somebody who can never give you anything back, someone who may not even know who you are- is  a bitter but sweet experience.  I am healing.  My heart is healing. The child in me sees and knows and hears that truly loving someone means loving them without expectation or condition. I hope somewhere in my mama's fractured mind she sees me. I hope she feels safe and cared for and loved.
I hope that at some moment, some fleeting time - even if just for a second- the window of her memories will allow her to recognize me and to know that in spite of the bad years, the splintered time and the wounds that never healed- I hope she knows that in the end- I came. That I am here for her. Not out of expectation or duty or desperation- but out of pure and simple love .
I love you Mama, from "that girl who sings with you while we wash the dishes". I love you.

Home

Some twenty years ago or so when my babies were really babies, I volunteered at a Rescue Mission.   Several of the volunteers in the mission thrift store where I was usually stationed, were also residents of the shelter. Some folks were there every couple of weeks for a day or two and some were just passing through - but others were more long-term and consistent residents of the mission's residential program.  One stoop shouldered, gray haired man in particular had a reputation for being a little left of normal- as in crazy and unpredictable, We called him "Mr. C'.  The other volunteers avoided Mr. C because he loved to talk but often his words were little more than incoherent syllables or incomplete sentences. You couldn't avoid him nor could you predict what he would say or do and most of the volunteers were afraid of his unpredictability!  I wasn't sure why he was at the Mission or what his story was, but sometimes his words were wise and profound. It was obvious at some time in his life Mr C had been an educated man and I felt sorry for him, this strange little fellow with the mismatched clothes and ill fitted shoes.
One day  as I was volunteering he came in the front door - looked left and right and then made a bee line - straight in my direction.  It was as if he had me in his field of vision and he crossed the creaky wooden floor in his worn out shoes with purpose- stopping directly across from me.  Without greeting but looking me squarely in the eye Mr. C simply blurted out "Words are containers. They always contain meaning".
That was it. End of message. Just as quickly as he had appeared, he turned and shuffled away.

"Words are containers" I have digested those words for these many years and I think I have finally understood what Mr. C was trying to say.

Words are containers like Tupperware bowls or pickle jars- and they always contain, carry, deliver something.   If words are containers- and I believe they are- then every time we speak or write- we deliver something. That's why choosing the right words are so important and so  achingly critical.
As a writer I agonize over every. single. word. I want to be completely certain that anyone who hears or reads my assorted blatherings - receives just the message I intended. Being misunderstood is one of my biggest fears and I feel responsible if /when misunderstandings happen,  the "I shoulda-coulda-woulda-said-it-like-this" kind of thinking torments me to the core.
So where is all of this leading? What does Mr C and his old shoes and bizarre behavior have to do with me today? And more importantly you my friend and reader? It's all about our words and the importance of using them correctly, of understanding them succinctly and how using them or not understanding them can cause havoc in our psyches! I started this post with a particular word in mind "HOME"..a small word with an enormous meaning. Let me see if I can put this all together...

It's been 2 months since we left Florida and the place that Steve and I called home. That place is very far away now- in miles as well as time.  I have alternated between euphoric wanderlust and petrifying fear of the thought of being home-less. It's been a roller coaster of emotions and I can't say it's been entirely painless, it wasn't. It's been scary as hell and I have spent much time praying & meditating to find peace of some sort to soothe me. I'm making progress.
HOME I am learning, isn't a place. It's a feeling and we carry it inside of us.  HOME is our refuge, a sanctuary, that place where we feel loved and safe and accepted. Did you get that? Home is a feeling of unconditional love-acceptance-safety. Your address- that building where you store your stuff and park your car might be the most beautiful place on earth but if you are not with people you love and people who love you- you might as well be in a box under a bridge.

Home you can argue IS a place- and well yes maybe so but it's a place without a mailbox or an address or garden gnomes.  It's not a place that the mortgage company or the realtor sells you. Home can't be purchased with money or good credit and can never- not ever - be taken from you- not even in foreclosure! Home is a place inside of us.

To be 'home-less' then means to be untethered, disconnected from everyone around you. Homelessness is a condition of the soul, of the heart, of the spirit. It's not being without a roof or garden gnome but rather it's being without refuge or safety or unconditional love.
So let me put the lid on my pickle jar - I mean my words - and sum it up by saying this...
just as the outer physical brick and mortar buildings are NOT the CHURCH or just as the WHITE HOUSE is NOT the Government...neither is your address your true HOME.
That place, your place, your HOME- lies somewhere inside you- its someplace you carry with you wherever you wander and some place where at any moment you can stop and smile and cherish the faces and voices and memories that occupy your heart, your home, your sanctuary.



Namaste' my friends. Peace for every step of your journey.