The Mixed Yes

A week before my last post, I learned that my mother had been diagnosed with ovarian cancer. Two weeks ago, she passed on, thin, frail, and resolute on completing her journey whole-heartedly.

My mother did not talk about the fact that she was dying, not if she could help it. She chased the doctor from the room when he came to tell her that there was nothing more they could do for her. This dying thing was her business and her business alone, I imagine she was thinking. The doctor found her tenacity endearing.

She did not say much in those last days as we sat beside her, captivated by her passing. What she did say mostly appeared disjointed and dreamlike. When she spoke with us directly, her eyes widened with childlike presence and singular clarity.

"Oh! It's Kristin Ann." My arrival seemed to both delightfully surprise and meet expectation.

In the last year of her life, my mother found herself remarkably at ease with much of her world. She rarely argued with her husband. She looked at the lavender, lambs, and donkey in her fields and proclaimed herself happy despite economic challenges. The boys and I spent over a week with her at harvest without a single conflict -- unheard of and fulfilling in ways that left us both in wonder.

She had relaxed. I had relaxed. We were both trying to get used to this, looking at each other sideways and smirking. "Just sitting here staring straight ahead," she'd say as we surveyed the valley at cocktail hour beneath the buzz of summer cicadas.

I look back now and wish I could have earlier released all of the strifes of our relationships, all of my worries about her responses that I held long after the volcanoes of menopause had gone dormant. I wish I could have enjoyed her more.

I hold the mirror so that I can see the front of me from behind. I hope that I can enjoy my children and family now for who they are, that I may open my heart to them wholly in this moment, releasing them from the roles I perceived them to play in the past. I hope that I myself can find my grace in present time so that I may proceed with compassionate attention that is not minefield careful, not clinging to armistice for dear life.

I want at least some of my yes's to be whole-hearted if not open-hearted, embracing the joy of embarking rather than the complete consciousness of all needs met and unmet. I want to say "I will!" with excitement and take the hands of my comrades for better or for worse in every commitment, whether it's soccer, dance, ritual or art.

I celebrate the 'yes' of abandon. Analysis can be made, inner reflection spent, but once decided, may the expression be ecstatic -- I'll do it!

I see the price of a mixed yes as a lack of riotous color, and that color is what paints our view of the past. When I survey my life from that pinnacle, whenever I may find it, I want to look back on what I left behind in vivid splendor. I want my children and loved ones to recall the color I added to their world, the times I said "yes!" with all of me, never looking back.

It's too much to expect that every time, I know. Perhaps I could do it just often enough to leave an impression.