[IMAGE REMOVED AT REQUEST OF PHOTOGRAPHER]
Apologies to my readers. The cute photograph that was posted here is no longer available for you to enjoy, as it was copyright protected by its photographer. It was the perfect image to represent my blog entry nearly a year ago, but for now, I am leaving this space empty.
Please imagine if you will, a beautiful greyhound wearing large round-rimmed eyeglasses and sitting on a pile of books....
You may not recognize her, but the beauty looking back at you is no stranger. The studious appearance. A pile of books upon which to rest.
That would be me.
Funny how a few hours of sleep after a marathon day of brain work and a mini-meltdown at bedtime can change one’s perspective. I had a full blog post written yesterday in anticipation of today but as it turns out, I have decided not to share it. At least not what I had originally written.
I poured out a letter to my brother and sister yesterday because I was reflecting on my life’s juggling act and the inevitable turning of the calendar page. I’ll keep the letter between the three of us though, because there is an opportunity here to offer a shared experience.
Today is my birthday. In my distant past, that would be a big deal, a cause for lifting a glass, making plans, and generally soaking in the adoration of family and friends who always reach out to wish me well.
Instead, it has become one of those days that presents a mixed bag of emotion. This is a common issue for anyone who has suffered the loss of a loved one: dealing with the special days of the year that are now different because of the “missing pieces.”
I don’t want to dwell on that but much as I will try, I will not have a choice on how the emotions will poke at me throughout the day. It’s a roll of the dice because you never know how it’s going to go.
It is what it is. You keep going.
All this writing and sharing and inspecting I’ve been doing here is stirring up a lot inside, obviously. But let me say this: Whether the topic is grief or ice cream, to me, this is what writing is. As a writer, I retreat to the inner places of myself where the real experience lies and chip away to unearth the minerals that eventually come to represent these experiences in the form of writing.
It’s what I do. When the ideas start dancing around in my mind, I will either “shake it up” with them or let them dance on their own until one of us decides to put lyrics to the music.
So this morning when I came downstairs to put on the coffee, make the lunches, and get ready for the day ahead, I was met by this cute lass you see here, elegantly staring out at me from the front of a handwritten birthday card. She was sitting on this pile of books next to the Maxwell House and surrounded by three intriguing objects: an African violet, some sort of “tropical foliage” plant, and a sweet potato, courtesy of my thoughtful husband. (As I write this, it strikes me that these things could be subject to a variety of interpretations... let’s just smile and agree that this is a sweet gesture and leave it at that.)
Of course, Michael has learned through the years that I regard birthdays as a person’s “special day,” though he regularly disagrees with me on the philosophy. Like many people, he claims to feel that birthdays are “just another day” (and yet, somehow, he is always pleased to be given the royal treatment every year when his special day rolls around).
My feeling is this: you’re supposed to celebrate because it is the one day of the year that is solely yours. Your life, tagged to the moment on that particular day when you took your first breath. It’s your special day. A day that celebrates YOU.
Every year since the death of my sister Joyce, and later since my brother John died, I have had to strap on the virtual seatbelt and hit the gas to maneuver the emotional traffic that an anniversary like one’s birthday can bring. Like I said, it is what it is. Somehow, you figure it out. Life carries you along, and the people you surround yourself with always fill in some of the missing pieces in their own unique ways.
I think that’s a blessing of grief. You can’t always get what you want, but if you try, sometimes, you get what you need.(Thank you, Mick Jagger.)
I’ve got a schedule of things to do today that “must” be done, but there is room to go withi the flow too, so that’s what I’ll do. I’m sure my mother will call at 8:19 a.m. to wish me a Happy Birthday, she being the first to do that since the day I was born at precisely that time. It’s one of the rituals I can count on. The rest will work itself out.
One thing I know for sure. I’m having lunch with Joyce and John. We’re having a tuna fish sandwich. There’s a story to that, but that’s between us.
As I mark another year in my life, I’ll look back a little to reminisce about the good days I can’t get back. I also will look ahead because I have many blessings that have come to me since J&J were here. Either way, I’ll celebrate with them. That’s just the way it is.
Copyright 2010 By Marianne V. Heffernan
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