I posted this quote earlier this week and it has stuck with me each day.
The reality of my dad's passing is hitting me hard. All of the bits and pieces connected to someone's passing, the bills, the service, the tombstone, the wills...
The reality of going home to share this experience with people that I don't really know is making me nervous. It is like every going home to a small town movie portrays.
It has not been easy for me to get to know and accept myself. It has been a hell of a journey to peel back the years of layers and fear to stand as me. It has been very interesting to feel the love and support from friends for shining some light on some nasty little corners of my soul. It has been a huge blessing to connect with people who share similar histories.
But just as I just start feeling okay with who I am as a person, a mom, being twice divorced, how and what is important to me as I vote, speaking my truth as a feminist, and then sharing the part of me that is a big emotional woman, I feel myself bump up against that edge.
The edge is sharp and solid but I can slide my toes beyond it just a tiny bit and bend them under the edge firmly. I have to admit, I like the feeling of standing there, the anticipation, wondering what is she going to do this time?
I have stood there paralyzed with fear. I have stood at this edge many times in the past and chosen to back away, slowly with my head down, unable to breathe and wait for another day.
I have also stood at the edge on other days and held my breath while I stepped forward. Some times I have enjoyed the sweet relief of finding solid ground under my feet and other times I have fallen flat on my face.
I am bumping into my edge over and over again. I stand in the attic of my life and I see the boxes. I am slowly opening each one up and peeking inside. If what I find doesn't freak me out to bad, I sit down and open up the box and pull things out and see what happens. I feel like I have opened most of the boxes and rode the fear and sadness and anger and then walked them downstairs to the driveway for Salvation Army to pick up. Felt and done, right?
Edged my way out a little farther into freedom. Totally psyched for any steps past the edge.
But then I go back up in the damn attic a few years later and see a box that I know good and well I unpacked and donated.
God is very funny about delivering my shit back to me, repeatedly, letting me know that I am not really quite done with this specific box yet. That is what is happening right now. I thought I had dealt with my dad's death years ago when he first started getting sick. I said what I needed to get off my chest and told him I loved him. It didn't come as a surprise when he died this past December, but when I opened my front door, God had sent me some packages that I needed to sign for.
I want my life to be linear and deal with it and done, but I am having to accept that there is not a destination or end to this race other than death and I am in no hurry to get to the end.
"Life is a whole journey of meeting your edge, again and again."~Pema Chodron
I can't get out of my head this week. Going home is in a box for me. Bad things happened back home. Feelings were hurt, things were ignored, children were neglected. Everything is all stirred up for me right now.
I wish I could say that I have forgiven the past and am ready to move on, but just as I think I have moved past that edge, then I find another edge, and another. This forgiveness thing is way hard to do. I guess I am still at the feeling stage and haven't yet felt the depth of what is there.
My Mom sent me a sweet text after reading something I had posted this past week and she said "you have and have always had the strength you need when you need it" and that I am too hard on myself.
So, I am going to cut myself some much needed slack and sit with this grief for my dad's passing and grief for the bits of my childhood that still hurt my heart for a bit longer and see what they need to teach me.