Abundance was the word that rooted itself in me at the start of the new year. My sankalpa; my mantra; my guiding phrase; I repeated it on the mat, exhaling, and throughout the day, reminding myself that in 2024 I would come to trust in the sufficiency of the universe. My mindset would swivel from scarcity to prosperity. I would not fear lack. What I needed would come in its proper time. I would practice letting go, relax my fierce grasp on the things I love, and cease my constant reaching for the places I thought I needed to be. I would enjoy being my authentic self each day and let the pieces of my life fall into place.
Abundance has been a mixed bag.
I fell in love last November. It is so good, so solidly good down to my bones to be partnered with this man.
There’s a lovely little family whose kids I get to babysit and it fills my heart with so much joy every time I get to spend time with them.
I got a promotion at work with lots of new responsibilities and problems to solve and people to work with. It even came with a new computer.
In April, one of my closest friends revealed she and my ex husband were in love. It was a shock on two fronts. I haven’t seen him date anyone yet, though our marriage ended seven years ago, and she had been one of my closest confidants. Try as I might to go with the flow, it felt weird. I felt betrayed. I’ve avoided writing because of it.
Beset by physical injury, surgery, and recovery, I’ve had to practice letting go of my timeline for achieving physical fitness goals. My clothes don’t fit the same and I feel insecure about it. I can’t climb as hard as I used to before I broke my arm over a year ago.
A good part of the year has been riding my bike around the city, something that terrified but now delights me.
In July, my dad was in an auto accident. A friend supplied miles and I was able to see him, but it wasn’t easy or heart-warming to see him in his injured state. About six weeks after the accident, he died. I watched him take his final breaths. My dad is gone.
The day after his accident, a coffee leak in my bag got into my computer, killing it, too. The replacement came several weeks later.
Work has been incredibly fun and challenging. Two weeks after my dad’s death, an event my team has been planning for six months went off without a hitch, exceeding all expectations.
It’s the start of my second-born’s freshman year of college and I got to drive him to campus! We did it!
Last week, my mom began hospice. She is in the end stage of Lewy Body Dementia, being kept alive by applesauce, morphine, and sheer dogged determination to not do as I suggest: let go. I spend each day sitting next to her, occasionally crawling into the bed to lie beside her, sing songs, and weep, but the last two days I have been stuck at home, unable to drive because of severe back pain. I can’t do the sitting.
I cry, usually in the mornings. Progress on Dad’s eulogy has ground to a halt. Now I need to start writing mom’s as well. I have two weeks to finish planning Dad’s memorial service. Luckily, I have friends who are helping.
A sweet friend took me to the naked lady spa last week and I got a Korean body scrub treatment. Tonight I’ll make dinner with my Love. My youngest two kids will return for their week with me. I’ll soak in the bath, and perhaps after a good night’s sleep, be able to spend tomorrow with my mom, maybe dress in one of my dad’s old fleeces.
On Sunday I turn forty-five. I don’t know how to celebrate, but also don’t know how not to. Never in my life have I felt more loved than I do now. Never have I felt this type of loss. The hardest part is not being in control of the timeline, not being in control of anything other than my self, and not really having control over that, either. I want to make my spine go into place and stay there, muscles relax, stop hurting, let me go places, sit incorrectly for hours on end if I want to. Be free from the consequences of my own poor posture!
I’m going to let the pieces of my life fall into place goddammit.
Happy early birthday Elise I love you
My condolences on your loss. This is such a brave, beautiful, tender piece of writing.