My office is filled with the scent of lilacs. I couldn’t resist bringing in the dark purple and snowy white pinnacles even though it’s a mite too soon and they’re not fully open. Lilacs and my mother seem intertwined. I can’t think of one without the other. There has always been a lilac bouquet on my mother’s kitchen table in May.
It’s nice to remember my mother in earlier days. Remember she has not always been confused, confusing, frustrating or distracted. Nice to remember I haven’t always been balanced on this delicate, sharp edge of wife/caregiver/writer/daughter/grandma/mother. Remember a time when I didn’t have to consider how to spend those few spare moments.
Nice to remember a time when the idea of pursuing my dream did not involve so much juggling of time and mind. ‘Mothering’ my mother is…uncomfortable, complicated, taxing. Finding the boundaries of caring-giving has been challenging and I do so many things wrong. And all the while I’m caring for her there is my writing nagging me, as well as my responsibilities as a wife, mother and grandmother.
In all that mix, I have to find a way to take care of myself. That’s hard. For me, writing and the garden is my best source of caring for myself, bringing peace and calm to my mind, but both comes with their own stress.
What I do in all these cases is ask myself who I am. I often wonder if I can continue to write while caring for my mother and all these other pulls. And it always comes down to this: I am a writer. Always have been, always will be. When I was sick and I couldn’t write…that was the biggest ache, the one that made me question who I was, if I could no longer write. That is not to say it didn’t hurt to let my mother down. It is to say, you are who you are. You cannot fight that and I don’t think you should.
Hummm…I’ll pick a big mug of lilies-of-the-valleys too. I don’t think it would be too much. Would it?
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