The Anniversary - It has finally arrived!

31,536,000 seconds......525,600 minutes......8,760 hours......365 days......12 months......1 year...…

I childishly wanted to believe that if the first year anniversary wouldn’t happen, then maybe it wouldn’t be real, wouldn’t be so final. But I had to put aside childish thoughts and dreams as I experienced your birthday, Mother’s Day, Christmas, Thanksgiving and all the other holidays, all our birthdays, silly accidents and even a surgery – all without you.

It has finally arrived. The 1st anniversary of your death. The memories, the details of that Friday, 9 days after my birthday and 2 days before Jeanette’s birthday – are forever etched within my body, within my soul, within who I am. I can see and feel it all now. You listening to the entire CD of Christy Lane singing some of your favorite gospel songs and especially your favorite “One Day at a Time” before you finally chose to let go of my hand and take God’s hand. (Oh, what memories I have of you singing that song along with her over the years, whether you were in the kitchen cooking, lying in bed with your earphones and books, sitting in your rocker, walking from one room to another as you took care of some household chore.)

I remember your room being so spiritually filled that morning. It was as though God Himself filled the room with His presence as He prepared your walk together across the bridge. Gordon, there beside you, softly sharing his memories and telling you how much he loved you. And you responding to him, knowing he was there with you. You and I sharing one last time. You looking directly at me and me watching that one tear gently roll down your cheek as you responded to me when I told you “I loved you and that we would be okay.” And with all my strength and love, I whispered in your ear, “Momma, remember asking me all those times about going home, wanting to know when were you going home.” Again, I told you I loved you and said, “It’s time, Momma. You’re going home now.” And in unbelievable peace, you softly breathed out as God took your hand from mine. It was 11:52 A.M., Friday, August 10, 2007.

There are so many more memories to that morning. Perhaps another year, another time I will be able to share them with others without such overwhelming emptiness and tears. But I can say that Gordon and I were forever changed in those moments that morning, our bond strengthened even more. In death, as in life, you once again deeply touched our lives.

As I continued my journey since that morning without you, I tried to honor you, to honor your memory. I released balloons each month on the 10th to acknowledge your flight of freedom and unsuccessfully tried to use that monthly experience to jump-start my own freedom flight. I donated more items and dollars in the past 12 months than I did in many years combined. Somehow giving to Hospice and other service organizations, donating inanimate objects and money, seemed "safer" than getting involved.

It is a difficult journey some of us have traveled and others continue to travel. After almost a year, I have come to believe our journey is never over - we simply take various detours but always return to the main highway at speeds that make time quickly pass or allow it to linger in the rearview mirror. We sometimes pass each other traveling a lonely road; we sometimes stop and chat while waiting for the light to turn green; we sometimes pull over at a rest stop to take a break, but not often; we sometimes drive aimlessly, without a map, without direction.

In the past 12 months I learned the depth with which one can withdraw and isolate, with which one can drive aimlessly. And yet, within the same moments of looking into the abyss, I cherished the moments we shared and deeply cherished the blessing of your passing because you were finally free and at peace.

I will continue to cherish our shared times, our blessings, the memories of our spiritual journey on which we embarked. In your memory and honor, Mom, I offer you another poem describing my last 12 months without you. I wrote this for you in my final “count-down” mode as this anniversary approached.

GOD TOOK YOUR HAND FROM MINE

Each night I watched the shadows on the wall,
Sometimes through tears, sometimes just in silence,
And wondered if you walked among those shapes
Or were they simply images of my mind.

Each day I searched among my memories,
Recalling those special moments we shared;
But sometimes I slipped into the abyss
Because of holding to the darkened clouds.

Each month I celebrated your going home
By watching my chosen symbols fill the sky
And hoped the symbolism was not lost on me
As I celebrated your flight of freedom.

But now the counting of nights, days and months
Seems less of an unexpressed urgency
As each moment, each minute becomes the total
Of twelve months since God took your hand from mine.

I shall hope that with this 2nd year I will discover a map and once again learn to drive with purpose and direction. And, I will continue listening to the chimes.

I love you, Mom.

Joyce

11 Months and Counting

As I watched your 11 balloons take flight, I thought about one of our favorite songs, "Down in the Valley," we would sing at home and when we were riding around. As I watched the balloons becoming small dots in the bright blue summer sky, I began singing our song. Wouldn't you know it, the tears flowed freely as I sang to you.

"Down in the valley,

The valley so low;

Hang your head over,
Hear the wind blow.

Hear the wind blow, dear,

Hear the wind blow;

Hang your head over,

Hear the wind blow.

Roses love sunshine,
Violets love dew;

Angels in heaven

Know I love you.

Know I love you, dear,

Know I love you;

Angels in heaven

Know I love you."

Even after 11 months and knowing you are dancing with the Angels in Heaven, I still miss you, Mom.

I love you,

Joyce

Ten Months and The Train Ride

Well, here it is - 10 months today. I've been missing you a lot lately, Mom. Feeling alone...hopeless...empty. I don't share those feelings with others because it's easier to isolate and withdraw than to reach out. I know this, too, shall pass but in the meantime, it really doesn't feel good at all.

So, Mom, let me tell you how the darkness began to lift this morning. I received an e-mail from a friend in Nevada about 9 a.m. She had forwarded this attachment: http://pixiesplace.com/trainride/.

Talk about synchronicity! Between the train ride and the chimes I could feel your love, feel your presence. I could feel the mix of tears and the warmth of sunlight on my face. I opened my eyes and saw the beauty of the moment. I opened my heart and felt the moment. It was as though the universe opened and I could hear you talking about your train rides.

And, how you loved those train rides! Actually, you loved any kind of ride. Each time was like watching a child at the carnival. Your joy, your laughter - each moment was so infectiously happy.

Ten months - seems like only yesterday but yet another lifetime. I am so fortunate to have had you in my past, my present and my future. I will continue to honor you, to honor your teachings and guidance, to honor each moment you ring the chimes as I take this train ride.

I love you, Mom.

Joyce

Happy Mother's Day, Mom

Hi, Mom,

Happy Mother's Day!


Your Mother's Day balloon floated so high, playing hide-and-seek among the feathered clouds and sending butterfly kisses back to me.

Love you always, Joyce

I was a bit apprehensive about this day, thinking it might be the hardest one to get through, other than your birthday this year. But, you know, it wasn't so bad afterall. You have helped me so much to come to terms with your going Home.

Sure, I miss you, but I feel your presence, I sense your nearness, and, of course, I hear the chimes - always the chimes. So, in many ways, you are still so very much in my world.

When I try to visualize the whole spirituality of all this, I am in awe and extremely limited in true understanding. I can only imagine the freedom you have that you sought for a lifetime. I can only imagine how you must feel being surrounded by God's depth of love and joy and peace. What wholeness, what purity, what expansiveness! I don't even have words to describe what I feel would be the essence of the spiritual realm in which you exist. And yet, I can't even refer to that as existence because as you told me many times, there is no beginning nor ending in God for He has always been and will always be.

It continues to amaze me that you knew from the beginning of your place in that spiritual world with God. He truly was with you always. I am beginning to understand your faith is your legacy to me, to those whose lives you touched. In coming to understand that, even for just a moment, I know in my heart there is no separation, no loss because nothing can break God's connections.

So, see, Mom, Mother's Day wasn't so bad for me afterall.

As always, I love you.

Joyce

9 Months & Mother's Day Tomorrow

Hi, Mam-ma. I hope you enjoy your balloons from Daddy and me. We're sending them from in front of our home in Pearland. Abby was some place else but next time I will make sure she is with us. I love you. Blake

Oh, and FGA Joyce sent you these balloons from Bryan at the same time Daddy and me sent ours. Daddy and FGA Joyce were even talking on the phone so they would release them at the same time. Pretty neat, uh?

Well, Mom, it's been 9 months today since you went Home. I talked with Gordon the other night and he told me about his visit from you. He was so excited and really needed to hear those chimes. Thank you for being there for him, as you always have been.

Anyway, I did a new balloon release "thing" this time. Gordon bought 9 balloons to match the colors of the 9 balloons I bought. At the cemetery, I'm talking on the phone to Gordon, who has Blake with him in front of their house in Pearland. At the same time, we both release our 9 balloons in your memory and honor. Gordon seemed please to be a part of this monthly ritual. Today was special, not only because it was the 9th month of your passing, but also because it was shared at the same time by your great-grandson and grandson in Pearland and me in Bryan. And to think, although Gordon and I could only hear each other on the phone, you could hear us and see all three of us. What a loving experience it was. Thank you for continuing to gently hold our hearts and walk with us through these times.

By the way, Gordon said his balloons rose perfectly higher and higher. And mine, for the first time in all these months, my balloons rose high enough to become entwined in the big oak tree. That's never happened. I kind of thought perhaps you wanted them around for tomorrow, my first Mother's Day without you. So, those balloons will be watching me as I release your Mother's Day balloon. Kind of a nice, circular memory.

I love you, Mom, so much.

Happy Birthday and 8 Months Later

Happy Birthday, Mom.

I love you.

JUST FOR YOU,

85 BIRTHDAY BALLOONS, and

YOUR VERY OWN BIRTHDAY CAKE!!!

It's been 8 months today since you went Home, Mom.

I miss you.

Easter Passes and Random Thoughts Visit

My first Easter without Mom came and went. I went out of town as planned but seeing those plans through was just not meant to be. I spent Easter feeling like a cartoon character - driving back, crying my way home and then sitting in the darkness of the drawn shades, telling no one where I was or why. I just wanted to savor the aloneness, the sadness, the emptiness without having to explain my feelings to anyone, without someone "trying to cheer me up," trying to alter the moment that I must have needed. I missed my Mom, I missed my family. I was glad Easter came and went. I was grateful the Cross had meaning for me, and both God and my Mom shared this Easter with me.

With the passage of those Easter moments, I began feeling fairly contemplative with these rather meaningless random thoughts as we all reach for stars:

Humans are strange creatures. We say we embrace the idea of "being true to our feelings" yet when that occurs, we circle the wagons as though we can somehow keep those feelings we don't understand or accept from oozing into the circle through the spokes of the wheel. Circling the wagons cannot produce a perfectly sealed enclosure. Feelings are transitory moments that become our teachers through their movements into and out of that enclosure. Do either of us even recognize, let alone, accept those feelings?

Is not friendship defined by the limitations of your life, of my life? Is it your flaws or mine that keep distance within a friendship? I cannot answer either question without first accepting you as an individual and then deciding whether or not I can pursue a friendship within the parameters that exist. Do we even want to share the dance of friendship?

If I allow "me to be, to feel," then I must honor you with that same freedom. You can only reach for the stars if we do not hold your arms. If we continue to hold your arms, then do you not learn to reach with your heart. With which do you stretch?

Seven Months Today

Seven months today - how quickly time passes and yet, at times, it seems only yesterday.

I continue to grieve for Mother, but I am aware I have begun the healing process. As I sat in my car at the cemetery late this afternoon waiting for the rain to stop, I thought how strange that such dichotomy - grieving and healing - can exist in the same person at the same time. And yet, thinking of it in terms of Alpha and Omega or the Known and Unknown - not strange at all.

There was actually something very comforting about sitting in the car with the gentle rain cleansing every surface it touched. And then the rain stopped. I got out of the car, released the seven balloons, and watched for several minutes as they floated higher and higher, and farther and farther away. I watched as five disappeared from my sight. As I watched the last two floating together even higher, I thought of our journey together. I felt Mother's presence and knew I had once again experienced that symbolic release with those balloons. We are at peace.

I love you, Mom.

Being All Grown Up

Well, another milestone will occur within a few hours - my first surgery without my Mom being there with me. I know she will be with me spiritually but sometimes I wish she could still be around physically. This is one of those times. It just seems natural that your mother would be with you when something like this occurs. I suppose this is just a child-like need surfacing at the moment.

My sister is here with me and will stay for several days. That will be nice and, hopefully, stress-free. But, in the end, we are both orphans - or so it feels. We both are missing our Mother. It's not something we talk about too often with each other but when my sister does share her feelings, I can feel her pain and loss. We are so different and yet, even in the midst of needlessly arguing, the bond between us can be very strong. It saddens me that we often have such difficulty in trying to sustain that bond. So many times I have said "in time it will work out." With Mother's death, I became acutely aware that neither my sister nor I have the luxury of time as we had in the past.

So, with surgery just hours away, I re-read Milton Erikson: "The unconscious mind is decidedly simple, unaffected, straightforward, and honest. It hasn't got all of this facade, this veneer of what we call adult culture. It's rather simple, rather childish. It's direct and free." As with most things in this life, I have come full circle since beginning this entry. It truly is rather simple, childish and direct - I miss my Mom and would like her to be here with me today. However, instead, I will skillfully move around in the adult culture, as expectations dictate, and put aside my child-like longings for the moment.

For now, I will think of "insects on a bough floating downriver still singing" and I will find joy in the simplicity of that image.

Six Months Today

Today is the six-month anniversary of Mother's passing.

I still miss her so very much but I am beginning to gradually heal. I know she continues to be with me and watch over me.

I thank God for choosing her as my Mother.

Thank you, Mother, for touching my heart and staying in touch.

I love you, Mom.

The Chimes Saga Continues

On January 10 I went to the cemetery for two reasons. First, it was the five month anniversary of Mother's passing so I took and released five balloons, a ritual I do on the 10th of every month, adding a balloon each month. It is one of the ways I honor her spirit's freedom flight and symbolically acknowledge my continued efforts in letting her go. Some may not understand my need to do this each month until the first anniversary of her death on August 10, 2008, but it is not their understanding I seek. It is the trifecta between God, Mother and me. It is the enlightenment from God that I seek to understand.

And my second reason in going to the cemetery was to talk with Mother. After releasing the balloons, I returned to my car where I sat, with the window down, just visiting - having a rather light-hearted monologue more "to" Mother than "with" her. After a few minutes, I said to her, "Mom, it is nearing time for me to begin moving on and I need your help to do that."

As though on cue, nearby, the sound of chimes was as clear as though Mother was sitting in the car beside me. Now I have been going to the city cemetery off and on since 1968 when my Dad died. Offering no explanation to anyone, I have chosen to go there frequently since Mother died because I find it peaceful and comforting. At no time I had ever heard chimes, not in 1968 and certainly not in the past five months.

With chimes continuing to call out and unable to find them, I returned to Mother's grave site and said to her, "You are really talking to me today." At this point, the sound of the chimes seemed to be even louder. I kept scanning, seeking the source. Finally, about 15 yards away, I saw the chimes hanging from a rather large crape myrtle, its bare branches tinged with a gray winter cloak partially hiding the source but not the sound.

I thought this would be the end of another chime story but the saga was not yet over. As I continued to enjoy the exchange, I was aware messages were being sent to me but I could not clearly decipher anything. However, I felt within my heart Mother was letting me know she would be here to help me move on. Looking at the chimes again, I noticed the headstone partially hidden by small shrubs. Only the last name was visible from where I stood - JONES.

At that moment, I laughed out loud and told Mother, "You are on a roll today." You see, "Jones" is her maiden name. In all my years of going to the cemetery and researching family history, I had never noticed that particular marker.

At this point, I truly felt Mother was with me. As I was leaving I called my niece in Houston to tell her about the experience. Her first question to me: "What is his first name?" I returned to where I had been, got out of the car, walked over to the marker - all the time talking to my niece on the phone. As I stood in absolute disbelief looking at the name, I told Tammy, "His name is John Jones. His wife's name is Esther." You see, "John Jones" is the name of my Mom's great-gredat-grandfather. "Esther" is her cousin's name.

Now, this Jones is not her great-great-grandfather. With all the interconnectedness, I believe Mother was letting me know she had finally been reunited with her father, who died when she was 13 months old. As for "cousin Esther," she and her family come annually to help clean one of two family cemeteries. So many times, my Mom, sister and I - along with Esther and many other relatives - cleared both cemeteries.

It was as though family reunions were taking place more in that environment than at a park or someone's house. Strangely enough, there is something spiritually comforting about clearing a site and knowing it holds what remains of your great-great-great-grandparents.

The other part of Mother's message - it is time to return to the genealogical search.

So when I asked Mother to help me get on with my life, through those chimes she let me know the direction I would take for now and, most importantly, she would be with me as I learned more about her family that is mine. She will be with me as I begin to move on, learning more of my history so I might once again reclaim my identity I lost along the AD journey with Mother.