Helen

          Between blogs, I await inspiration. It comes like spitting rain (a new term Andrew and Emily have learned in their first year in Albany, NY, where it is included in the "potpourri of moisture" the local weatherman refers to)--not enough to do anything with. Originally, I wanted my blog to serve as a place to actually do some decent writing, without the exigencies of submission and rejection; of trying to identify a publication's style, audience, and preferred content; of following the submission guidelines perfectly; of writing the hook that will get an editor's attention--all in the attempt to break into the amorphous world of being published. 

           When I was in the MFA Creative Writing program, the professor of creative nonfiction termed my rewrite of one of my pieces suitable for a travel magazine, although she did say it had excellent descriptions and tangible characters. Her disdain was obvious. But I thought What's wrong with writing for publications read by millions? It held a lot more appeal than the literary journals so fawned over by "real" writers, and read only by few people. Okay, I'd probably like to be published there, too, and I celebrate every announcement on the MFA list.serv of a work accepted for publication in a literary journal, a prize won, a nomination for a well-known award.

           They say that once you start to make your name, the publishing world is somewhat yours, but meanwhile, the time it takes to submit compared to the time spent actually writing seems so lopsided, and the whole submission game is so annoying. Would I play it if I did have the time? Would I give up a lot of other activities now in order to have the time? I do think I still would like to publish a children's or young adult book someday. Meanwhile, I haven't blogged/written a thing, lacking the appropriate quantity of inspiration that will make me put everything else aside. Instead, I've found myself writing long comments on other people's blogs, thinking I should blog this topic. Thinking Okay, it's true, I really am not a writer, whatever that is. But, thoughts do go through my head, and I do want to share them with others. 

          So, I'm going to be like other bloggers I know and love who have no more time than I do and sometimes write incredibly literary and munchable blogs and others just plain old fun and interesting blogs, but who are out there blogging! So, here goes with some random thoughts... 

           A few weeks ago, my mom decided one morning to pop lots of ibuprofen and get out on the golf course. She's been a long time recuperating from a rather massive foot infection and subsequent surgery and trying to alleviate a low back issue. Our bodies just don't cooperate as much as we'd like as we get older. What is the definition of older, anyway? I laugh but curse the fact that no longer is bending over a simple matter but rather a five- or six-step procedure in each direction, down and up. And up doesn't always end up back where it was. So, Mom and ibuprofen golfed 9 holes and shot a 60, something some of us could never do--even if we did want to golf. Yesterday Mom said she'd played 18 holes this week and shot 120, adding that the first time she ever played 18 holes of golf, 30-plus years ago, she shot over 170. She added that she's feeling better than she has in a long time and is now getting up again at 6 or 7. Her rheumatologist said her body has needed a long time to heal from the foot problem and that she shouldn't even consider back surgery. That pronouncement seemed to help set Mom free, to allow her to to golf in spite of her back.

          I'm guessing the process of losing her mate, my dad, over six years ago now, after sixty years married and a life-long acquaintance, has also required a good deal of adjustment. Mom turned 89 this year. And in spite of all our history and all annoyances she causes me (not deliberately) and I have (deliberately as a teen, I'm sure) and do (hopefully not deliberately) cause her, and all the negative qualities I possess that I swear came genetically from her; despite that she drives me crazy at times (and I do her, I rather suspect), I want to be just like her when I am her age. I want to be stubborn and determined and independent. I want to pop as much ibuprofen as I need to, to hike up the mountain. I want to still read and write and discuss and make new friends and live in my own home and be adaptable and love and accept my kids and grandkids no matter what they do that I may not understand. I want to have a family reunion of four generations and be the oldest there and just as lively as everyone else (and hopefully, my four kids, rather than being together on the other side of the country, will be able to be together with us). I want to be humble and grateful and learn to accept help from those around me who so value my being in their lives that they don't think doing something for me means going out of their way. I want to have loved my mate so much that his absence from my life, if he dies before me, truly hurts, but put one foot in front of the other every day anyway, until one day, carrying on actually becomes, if not less painful, easier. 

           For a long time since Dad died, I've been angry at Mom. The differences and idiosyncracies of my siblings and I seemed more salient than ever, and once the memorials were over, we became even less communicative. Dad's ashes sat in a cardboard box in Mom's closet for months. More than ever, we seemed incapable of finding a time we could all get together. I wanted Mom to take over the family, to be our mother. Intellecutally, I knew her grieving would last a long time, but I wanted her to be the center of attention, leading the charge, as Dad had been. After all, Dad would sometimes get us together by saying Your mother would like you to.... 

          The day of Dad's first memorial service, I crawled in bed with Mom and told her I didn't want Dad to be dead. But she needed me as much as I needed her, and I couldn't be the child I wanted to be at that moment. I wanted Mom to show all her grief so I'd know which stage she was in. I wanted it to be as simple as the books can make it sound. I decided that because I had been pretty sure, on the last time I'd seen Dad alive, a little over two months before he died, that his body was giving out, getting through the grief was easier for me. At least, it must be, because I rarely cried or missed him after the memorials. 

         Mom didn't do anything you hear of people doing or that we sometimes thought she should do. We all "knew" she should wait a year to make a decision, but then we were ready for her to sell her house and move closer to her family. Sure, who would want to leave the 270-degree view of the Pacific that she has from her house, but, logically, staying didn't make total sense. But you can't have it both ways: it wasn't logical for me to say Mom should do this, while simultaneously admiring her courage and tenacity and vowing I want to be the same when I'm her age. 

          Mom grieved in her own way, which I sincerely doubt she had planned out, and which is the only way any of us can. She dealt with the blows, big and small, as they came, as we all do. I've been divorced over eight years from someone I spent only a quarter century with, not nearly the longevity Mom and Dad had, yet just last week, when we visited Stephen at his dad's, an incredible anger and revengefulness rose in me when I saw two pieces of my mother-in-law's furniture that I had especially loved. Grief isn't an emotion to be messed with. 

           When my siblings had both left home, I complained that I was stuck with our parents for two years by myself. I suspect that is not nearly as challenging as being the first-born with two novice parents. I had center stage and I suppose didn't always know what to do with it. But I also had hours of time with each of them individually, as Dad got up daily at 5:00 a.m. to drive me forty miles round trip for swimming practice, and Mom and I drove twenty miles home together daily, after my second practice of the day and her day at library grad school. Even if I can't quatify what we learned and tucked away about each other, I know a great deal of who I am came from those times I had with my parents. 

           The shadow of grief in and around Mom has become almost transparent. Over the last few months, she has been an incredible mother to me, and it is a case of be careful what you ask for: I am so grateful for her ear and wisdom, yet feel so silly for needing this at my age. I try to offer her what I have learned, too. We talk about womanly things that I don't remember ever talking with her about before, but even if we had, I probably would not have been ready to discuss such things with my mother. Mom enjoys life more again, it seems. It is not a burden she must endure because Dad would want her to go on. (When Dad was in the hospital in the induced coma designed to give his body a chance to rally, we'd laugh that if he awoke and saw us all standing around his bed, he'd chastise us for standing around doing nothing.) She has more joy in life again. She has uncapped her emotions, no longer afraid that they will demolish her. When my niece Lesley's baby was overdue, Mom agonized until Maizey was born and everyone was pronounced healthy. She acknowledges she doesn't like to drive far and willingly rides with others. She revels in waking early in the day again. When I called her after my first week of school, feeling guilty that I hadn't spoken with her in over a week, she immediately asked how the week had gone. 

           And I find myself missing Dad. Is it coincidental that my grief for him seems to be resurfacing? Is it that, as I've thought, I needed my energy to take care of Mom? Is it that I needed my energy for the grief left from divorce and caring for my children in the aftermath? Is it that I was too focused on meeting men and proving that I am lovable? Is it that, like those I accuse of the same, I don't want to deal with deep emotion? To a degree at least, Mom's rebalance sets me free to grieve for Dad, but I suspect that is only a small part of the picture. I do wish that I lived closer than a six-hour drive to Mom. But the distance does force me to spend more than a few hours with her. In July, I spent a week, a week I needed to be home with my mom. I'd like to think that I would have stayed that long even if Stephen didn't also live in the vicinity, but we both relished our time with him. 

          By letting me be her child, her adult daughter, mother to her grandchildren, and friend, by offering her ear and her honesty, Mom helped me heal my own wounds and sort through my own confusion. My mom is a genuis, beautiful, strong, drifty, stubborn, talented, a leader, a great friend, adventurous, rebellious, illogical, determined, intellectual, Harps' wife, Mom, Grandma, Aunt, Great-Aunt, Great-Grandma, sister, daughter, a politician, authentic, an activist, one of the first officers in the Women's Army Corps, principled.   

          "Helen," from the Greek, means "sun ray, shining light." Mom is both. It wasn't just hiking to Eagle Lake in Mineral King a few weeks ago, experiencing the High Sierra Trail through Doug's pictures of his trek with his son and buddies, and the sale at REI that inspired me to buy a new backpack last week so that I can spend the night on top of the mountains next year. As much as anything, it was the light that Helen shines in my life. 

            And I hope and think starting a new Anne Lamott book this week has rubbed off on my writing.