The wonder, kindness, magic, connection, & grief of just one Sunday

As a writer who is also an herbalist, in addition to writing I currently run a small, local-plant-infused herbal products practice called Ritual Mischief. Stay tuned for big news on that front next week! Big wonder and joy coming your way there if you follow Ritual Mischief! In the meantime, an online order came in yesterday evening that had this lovely note attached to it:

"Thank you! I can feel the love that goes into these, and so can the folks I share them with. The salves are helping to add ritual to a grief process."

Wow. So many reminders about life in those three short sentences.

Wow. It really doesn't take much time at all to turn somebody's bad day into a better day, does it?

Wow, did I need those words yesterday. Yesterday was a day of grief for me, too.

Yesterday was Easter. And for the first time that I can remember in a long time, my parents' wedding anniversary also landed on the same day. Their 56th wedding anniversary. They've got 36 years on D and I! So, we drove up and spent the day with my Dad– having brunch with his friends, giving him silly/irreverent Easter cards, playing card games, watching an important golf something-or-another (I was reading during that bit) on TV, and cooking a Mexican foods-focused Easter supper together to offer some extra love and support to our dear friend who just lost her younger sister to cancer this week. And, because of the bat-shite cruel men running our government at the moment, she doesn't get to fly home to be with extended family and say goodbye to her sister in person. Travelling in and out of the U.S. is just no longer safe for almost all of us at the moment.

Grief. She is with us.

We made homemade tortillas, Tacos Gobernador, beans, asparagus with cotija cheese, and agua de jamaica. We got hot crossed buns from a local bakery. We also got chocolate Easter eggs for ourselves and tucked them into little colorful easter cupcake holders, and we got grapes for our friend because she doesn't like sweets at all. And we got bunny napkins. The forest-listening, whole planet-lover within me doesn't buy paper napkins much anymore. But some days, you just really, really need bunny napkins.

Dad and I also walked down to spend some time with Mom, who lives in a memory care home in his neighborhood. My aunt, Mom's sister, had sent a bunch of lovely things for Mom's room. Fluffy stuffed animals (bunnies and lambs), fabric flowers, decorations, family photos, and a straw hat for summer. We were looking forward to decorating Mom's room and hanging out in one of the few homes left in the U.S. where U.S. politics never comes close to eroding or destroying relationships– because we all need each other so much within the Alzheimer's community that we literally can't prioritize personal beliefs above real neighbors. Most of us don't have the privilege of time or energy to hate, even if we wanted to. No matter how bad tempers, arguments, human rights abuses and losses get– and how much we protest and how bad the horrors may get in the outside world– in Mom's home, we stand together, hug each other, and we even sing each other's songs. We have no other choice. Mom has lived with Alzheimer's disease for 23 years now. So have we. We've had no other choice on this matter for quite some time. Whoops, I've digressed into our magic. Focus Lori, you were talking about grief.

We'd been warned ahead of time that Mom's face, around her mouth, was swelling quite a bit. They weren't sure why. The nurses had given her some Benadryl and were periodically applying a cool washcloth to the area. When we got there, they told us that the swelling had come down considerably. But the swelling was still far worse than we've ever seen before. Her lips looked like crooked-preacher-wife Botox lip injections gone wrong. So wrong. They were swollen to the point that she didn't look like herself at all. And while she'd eaten breakfast, she had refused to eat lunch– and who could blame her– so they were working on coaxing at least more liquids into her all day. She did open her smiling eyes to look at us for a while, and we held hands and talked to her, but she drifted back off to sleep pretty quickly. She didn't seem to be in pain. She did seem to be more confused about what was happening than normal, which hurt my empath's heart, and Dad too, I'm sure, though he doesn't often speak his grief. Our normal here is an always-moving target and means something different every month, sometimes, every day or every hour.

Grief. She is with us. She has gorgeous, shiny light grey hair and sky-blue eyes that still shift to find and hold ours. And this week, she had swollen lips. Today, lucky us, she's all better again. No sign of yesterday's trouble at all. That's what it is to live with Alzheimer's disease. We center on love long enough to learn that love is all the solid ground, and common ground, we'll ever need.

Grief. She is with us. She has long dark hair and a huge family who prays the rosary together, takes care of each other, and makes fantastic food. She also looks out for our family, and we look out for her.

Grief. She is with us. She is an always imperfect but once full-of-heart-and-possibilities country now faltering, stumbling, under the weight of chronic billionaire-backed lies, hate, greed, abuse, fear, corruption, grift, racism, white supremacy, misogyny, and fascism. The only sure way for us to feel our country's heart and possibilities again is to show up, in person, and stand with our neighbors.

And then, out of the blue, these words showed up on my phone last night:

"Thank you! I can feel the love that goes into these, and so can the folks I share them with. The salves are helping to add ritual to a grief process."

Every word in this note is a reminder that wonder, kindness, magic, and connection are with us too. Every step of the way. Grief doesn't need to be feared: this part I already knew. And. Grief also doesn't need to be centered to the point that you feel nothing but catatonic and heavy beyond belief.

So, after preparing this generous woman's online order (I would never demean her by calling her just a customer when she's clearly so very much more) and dropping it at our post office this morning, I looked back at our day yesterday. This time, with her words in my mind, I remembered these things about our day as well:

• Meeting more of Dad's friends at brunch, and meeting their adult son too, here visiting from another state. Watching him light up when he told stories about his teenage daughters and their prowess and devotion to soccer– both school teams and club teams. And listening to his own devotion to shuttling them all over their home state– sometimes three hours each way!– so that they can do more of what makes them so happy.
• Talking to another of Dad's friends about the mystery book series we're both reading– books I buy and loan to him. He's rapidly catching up to me in the series even though I started the series years ahead of him. I guess at 95 maybe he's a faster reader then I am, or he doesn't want to mess around and accidentally miss out on reading the entire series. ;-)
• Dad laughing at the silly cards we got him, and then taking them down to show his friends. I've spent my whole life watching my Dad spread laughter, and 0ffer support, to neighbors. His Dad did the same. At 84, my Dad's not showing signs of stopping either one. D picked the ridiculous cards out for him, correctly predicting both that they would make him laugh and also that he'd show them to the neighbors. Wow are there great, loving, giving, intuitive, and hilarious men on earth. What a fantastic reminder.
• My parents' best friends calling Dad to wish them a happy anniversary and catch up.
• Mom's blue eyes holding mine, and how lucky we are that Mom is still with us. The doctors told us we'd have 5 to 15 years with her. Twenty-three years (and counting) is so much more time than we thought we'd get. For 8 years now, each new day that Mom wakes up she is full on sticking it to the man! I'm so here for that. We're so lucky to have her as an example. Sticking it to the man daily requires a loving community. And receiving a whole lot of help. Eyes to look in to. Connection beyond words.
• Having friends from around the world is such a deep gift. Whether they're online, at a distance, or whether they've moved here to be with us or we've moved to be with them. Life is so much richer and deeper– and we are exponentially improved and expanded and humbled and inspired– by having friends and neighbors from elsewhere. I love that my Dad has this too. Especially now. Wow do we need this now.
• Mexican food. Sigh. Food dearer to my heart now than most of the foods I was raised on. Except those foods made from scratch by family we love, of course. Nothing beats my auntie's baked goods.
• Loving caregivers and nurses tend to Mom round the clock. Some people thank God for everything. Our family thanks caregivers and nurses and memory care staff as a whole for everything, most days. Our family isn't large enough to offer round-the-clock care, and our own expertise is nowhere near enough help for Mom now. It hasn't been in a decade. We needed a loving village, and we found one. More than one, actually. Wonders never cease.

So there you have it.

That was the wonder, kindness, magic, connection, and grief of just one Sunday.

Just one.