Blank Slates

     A few months into our life in Texas, we had already tackled so much uncharted territory. We bought land, a house, moved said house and we were ready to begin the renovation. 

I have said many times that this project has been more than just a renovation. It has been an exploration of self, and a personification of all the things we face when we explore our shadow.  With this space we had to be careful and selective. It was small and required a lot of out of the box thinking if we wanted to achieve a rustic homestead feel and modernize at the same time. In 1901, when the house was built there were no washing machines, convection ovens or copious amounts of counter space. Life was all about necessity and survival.  It was simple and in no way elegant. 

I picture a man laboring in the west Texas sun all day, with simple tools to put the house together. Coveralls and straw hats, strong arms and strong back.  I cannot imagine building without power tools. Yet the structure is more solid than most modern homes. I can tell by the energy encapsulated by the ageing wood that this house has seen a great deal of history, love and loss. It has seen wagon wheels turned to rubber, horse drawn plows to the green monsters of today.  I cant imagine the many seasons it stood in waiting, for someone to come along and breathe life into its bones. The excitement of this adventure however is eclipsed suddenly by the shade of illness in my family.

My mother has had a relapse of her cancer. This time, the cancer has come back in her brain for a second time and there is nothing to be done.  

I am a compartmentalizer, its something I had to get comfortable doing early on in my life because if all of the trauma boxes are open at the same time, well, I can't function normally. We had been thru a lot of very ugly things. It is difficult to be a hospice nurse and be a daughter at the same time, my failure to do both is the understatement of the century, coupled by the fact that my mother wanted nothing to do with any caregiving that involves me. I should not be surprised, I begged my grandmother also to move in with me, She would not have any of it. I suppose the apple doesn't fall far from the tree after all. 

At first her rejection of my assistance angered and hurt me. But as I have sat awhile with this situation I have discovered that it was a gift. One that she intended to give to me whether I liked it or not. I did not like it, but I accepted it as it was her wish. My mother , a woman I had identified with as my polar opposite most of my life, was a fiercely independent and proud woman. I'm sure she, just as I would be, felt humiliated by the thought of her daughter caring for her in such an intimate way. We fought ferociously at this time, me trying to do what was best and her doing everything she could to thwart me. It was tumultuous, right up until the time of her passing. 

My mother died without me at her side. I believe she wanted it that way.  I had been there just the weekend before her death. I took my daughters with me to have a girls weekend. I was trying to plan a tea for her but when I got there she was very very weak and I did not think she would be able to really participate. Instead she powered thru our weekend trying to make it seem as though she would live forever. The only tell was after church on Sunday, It took myself and my two daughters to get her up the stairs into her apartment. She was so cold and mean and ashamed of her indignity, saying things that cut me deeply.  As I was leaving that day, I got into my car and a small voice said, " This is the last time you will see her alive." I put my car in park and went back upstairs. I said my goodbyes and tried my best to put the weekends harsh overtones to bed and just simply love the mother in front of me. I rubbed her feet with lotion, spoke from my heart and left at peace. Indeed it was the last time I saw her alive. I felt her spirit pass thru on the way to heaven exactly one week later. 

My mother was a complex woman. We struggled so often in our relationship. Losing her brought forth a multitude of issues I had been trying for years to put behind me. I never understood who she was until she died. 

At the house I was able to infuse everything she left me to build the dream she was so excited about. But there where many months when grief ensured I found no real joy in the advancements. I know she was disappointed that I didn't chose to move home when I left Arkansas. But I knew that had I moved back to St. louis I would be putting my little farm dreams on the backburner because there was no way I could make it happen in a city. She always was proud that I was pursuing a dream and taking risks that she said she was never brave enough to take. I don't think that was true though, she faced a great many things that would have crumpled most women.

Thanks to my mother, we have a well,  fencing placed, electricity and plumbing. Her love found a way into the blank slate I was trying to create. Even when I was desperately trying to erase my mistakes, she was there to remind me that I shouldn't be ashamed to have taken chances and failed. Chances and risks are what  secure our happiness. 

I buried part of her ashes on my property in tribute to her. When I am sad I know she is always right here with me, bearing witness and holding sacred space for me. 

Blank slates are tricky things. so often the story you want to write has ideas of its own. I never in a million years thought my mother would be part of this story in such a profound way and that only speaks to my ignorance.  See, she had raised me to be an independent woman. Even when I craved control she refused to give it. She allowed me to be crazy and undone and to find my own way. I realize now that I am more like her then I would ever like to admit. 

The last time I talked to her on the phone we discussed how I may not make it in time to be with her when she died,. She said" I'm going to leave you something, I want you to use it to fix up your house. That way whenever you see it you will think of me. " 

I think of her often out here. I think of all the mothers and daughters who have to work harder than some to find their footing. I think about the love it takes to bring a being into the world and love it  when it is being wretchedly self centered. I think about her when I walk the property line and about how she gave me the courage to do my own thing.  

This week I bought an olive tree on a whim. I had initially planted a dogwood tree where I buried her, but it didn't live. Maybe she didn't like it after all?  When I looked up the meaning of the olive tree I felt suddenly that we could finally be at peace with each other, I plan to plant it there and see what happens.  An olive branch extended across time and space between two women who didn't know how exactly to love each other. May it mark the peace and healing between us in this world and the next..