by Christie Shumate McElwee
Friday the 13th has garnered a bad rap over the years. There are a litany of superstitions surrounding “triskaidekaphobia” that have perpetuated the mythology of 13, resulting in many office buildings skipping the 13th floor, hospitals bypassing Room 13, and some airports omitting Gate 13. But why the number 13? Maria G. Valdez wrote in The Latin Times, “that in numerology the number twelve is considered the number of divine organizational arrangement or chronological completeness, as reflected in the twelve months of the year, twelve hours of the clock day, twelve gods of Olympus, twelve tribes of Israel, twelve Apostles of Jesus, the twelve successors of Muhammad in Shia Islam, twelve signs of the Zodiac, the 12 years of the Buddhist cycle, etc., whereas the number thirteen was considered irregular, transgressing this completeness.”
12 good. 13 bad.
But what if we flipped the day and chose to focus on the optimistic aspects of number 13 instead of the dread?
After a little research, I discovered thirteen positive things to ponder today, Friday the 13th.
- The number 13 is considered lucky in Italy. And Italy has great wine and pizza….two of my favorite things on earth.
- The United State had 13 original colonies. Those bad boy founding fathers kicked ass and took names when they broke away from Britain.
- The 13th Amendment officially abolished slavery.
- For followers of the Jewish faith, 13 is when a boy or a girl becomes a full member of the Jewish faith after completion of a Bar Mitzvah or a Bat Mitzvah. I attended a few of these celebrations back in junior high, and I must say dancing the Hora in my red velvet maxi dress is one of my favorite memories.
- Thirteen is the lucky number of the Great Goddess, and the number of blood, fertility, and lunar potency. Looks like this could be a charmed night for many fortuitous couples.
- The gift for thirteenth wedding anniversaries is lace. Lovely.
- All members of the Apollo 13th mission returned home safely.
- The Hollywood sign was dedicated on July 13, 1923.
- Red brings more luck than any other color. Dig out your red sweater, socks, or even underwear. Make Friday the 13th the day to rock that red.
- It’s bad luck to clean on Friday 13th. Dust will have to wait.
- Pet a black cat today. Their purrs will bring you peace. My own black cat left this earth last year, but maybe I’ll visit one today in order to garner my own joy.
- My mom was born on the 13th of August, and without her, I wouldn’t be here and without me, my two boys wouldn’t be here. Thanks, Mom!
- A baker’s dozen is 13. Yum.
Richard Wiseman, a psychologist, suggested that believing in superstitions can be a way to avoid taking responsibility for your own failures. So, instead of fearing this day, sweep away the old thinking. Be the master of your own destiny. Decide for yourself what is good karma. Drink wine, wear red, and dance like no one is watching. At least that’s what I am going to do today. What about you?
“Here’s the thing about luck…you don’t know if it’s good or bad until you have some perspective.” ~ Alice Hoffman, Local Girls
by Christie Shumate McElwee
On the first day of December, I lit a candle, hoping the ceremony would brighten the gloom of a cold, windy morning. In the quiet I pondered the hectic past few days: the hours of organization and prep that led to family gathered around our Thanksgiving table, the crowds of shoppers my mother and I circumvented in the historic part of town on Friday, and the containers of leftover food still in our refrigerator. I sat in the stillness while listening to soothing traditional carols. I ignored my December to-do lists. A new morning. A new day. A new month.
December is the darkest month leading towards the shortest day. Even though bright lights twinkle from every street, melancholy often creeps into filled calendars of festivities. What can we do with our sadness when everything around us screams “Celebrate, damnit!”? Sometimes it is wise to sit with our grief, our brokenness, our mistakes, and slowly, quietly, and oh, so carefully, begin to forgive ourselves.
Maybe this is what Advent is all about: leaning into heartache, acknowledging pain, practicing hope. Many churches drape altars in purple during Advent, a color that denotes both royalty and repentance. During this hectic time, maybe we should wrap ourselves in that heavy purple. The darkness and weight of the material can remind us light is within reach. We forage for repentance, asking forgiveness for our snarky voices, petty minds, and selfish hearts.
Maybe Advent is just an audacious feat of hope. Some of us find it in scriptures or a church pew. Others may hear it in a cat’s purr, the wind’s whisper, or Handel’s “Messiah.” Or perhaps it is discovered in the quiet of an early winter morning as one candle illuminates all the world’s despair…and wonder.
“Advent: the time to listen for footsteps – you can’t hear footsteps when you’re running yourself.” ~Bill McKibben
“The word advent means ‘expectation.’ What advent can do for us is create a sense of hope.” ~Louis Giglo
“Our response to the wrongness of the world (and of ourselves) can often be an unhealthy escapism, and we can turn to the holidays as anesthesia from pain as much as anything else. We need collective space, as a society, to grieve – to look long and hard at what is cracked and fractured in our world and in our lives. Only then can celebration become deep, rich and resonant, not as a saccharine act of delusion but as a defiant act of hope.” ~ Tish Harrison Warren, priest in the Anglican Church in North America and writer in residence at the Church of Ascension in Pittsburgh
by Christie Shumate McElwee
“Just one more candle and a trip around the sun.”“Trip Around the Sun”
songwriters: Anderson, Vaughn, Bruton
recorded by Jimmy Buffett and Martina McBride
Even at my advanced yet fabulous age, I love my birthday. Everyone needs a day set aside just for them, that one day when you get to wear the crown and wave your parade wave. Yesterday, on my 61st trip around the sun, I was queen of the whole damn thing.
After a great massage with a new therapist (where I discovered CBD oil – wow and wow), I went out to lunch with a dear friend. Sonya insisted upon telling everyone we encountered it was my birthday, from the police officer issuing tickets on the street in front of the cafe to our brand new waiter to the JJill clerk where we went shopping later. She made me feel like a celebrity without the annoying paparazzi. I was tempted to don sunglasses and sign autographs.
Throughout the day, birthday texts and Facebook wishes kept popping up on my phone, reminding me of all the special people who have touched my life. I received phone calls from both of my boys, which are the best presents a mother really wants.
That night I made us my favorite comfort meal, homemade tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches. I ended the night on the sofa with my husband near as we watched a few sitcoms.
Birthdays remind us of time and how quickly it ticks by, especially as the years advance. Just like that, I am no longer 60, but 61. But what those years have given me is the knowledge that I am not in control of it all, and acknowledging that has been a valuable and welcome gift. I am letting go of old resentments, ancient grudges, and unreasonable fears. I’m embracing the winters I have left on this earth, knowing my heart is messy but true. I am really attempting to see myself and others as humans just trying to do the best we can with what we have been given. I am living each day on the lookout for wonder, and spotting grace in every sunrise and sunset.
Happy Birthday to me and to the rest of you who keep me living and loving and breathing as we enjoy this ride on our trip around the sun.
“I’m just hangin’ on while this old world keeps spinning
And it’s good to know it’s out of my control
If there’s one thing that I’ve learned from all this livin’
Is that it wouldn’t change a thing if I let go.”
~”Trip Around the Sun”
by Christie Shumate McElwee
“It is important to expect nothing, to take every experience, including the negative ones, as merely steps on the path, and to proceed.” – Ram Dass
The holiday season is supposed to be joyous, right? Carols sing to us from every store. Twinkling lights line each street. Santas are at the mall, on corners ringing bells, and watch us when we sleep. Amazon packages pile up on porches. Cookies and other sweets deck our festive tables.
Our calendars begin to fill with family dinners, children’s concerts, class parties, shopping expeditions, and special holiday events. We wrap presents. Meals are carefully planned. Lists grow every day.
As the obligations pile up, so does anxiety. Is there enough money to cover presents and fun activities? How do I handle family issues? Will I be able to juggle scheduling conflicts? What about the weather forecast? Will all the lights work? How many trips to Target will be required? Did I mention family issues? How is it possible to conquer all this and still enjoy the season?
Last weekend my husband and I hiked some local trails that look out over a river. When we reached the top, right there on the top of that bluff, I shouted, “Take my holiday anxieties. I release them to you. They no longer own me.” After I made this offer, I immediately felt lighter. Yes, I realize it was ceremonial, but often rituals help clear away the fog.
What I have grasped over the years is that is it important to let go of tightly-held expectations. Holiday traditions can be revised. This is not an easy task, though. Clinging to certain customs may give us a sense of satisfaction, but in order to breathe, we must learn to release what doesn’t serve us or our families. We need to ask ourselves, “Does it give me joy?” If it only causes frustration and stomachaches, then it may be time to reevaluate.
Do we have to send Christmas cards to every one of our friends? Why not send cards to those special individuals who have touched us throughout the year? Write a short note, detailing how they make your life better. Or just text. Or forget the whole thing. Whatever makes your life easier.
What about presents? Are we required to get presents for everyone on our lists? If finances are tight, explain that you are passing on physical gifts, but will instead offer up your time. Schedule dates in the next year for a movie or coffee or just a walk around the neighborhood.
Is it necessary to attend every holiday concert, event, and festival? Instead, why not pick one or two that you love, or search for a new experience? You are not required to fill every day on your calendar from now until January 1. I promise.
What about holiday decorations? You ask, “If I don’t deck my halls, some may call me Grinch or Scrooge.” It is okay to pass if you are not up to it, or if you have a toddler who is a walking destruction team of one. Maybe just string some twinkle lights up on the mantle instead of dragging out the boxes of garland and ornaments. You do you.
What if bad weather disrupts plans? Realize you have no control over the weather. No. Control. It’s the freaking weather. It is always good to have a Plan B or even a Plan C, but if a huge snow storm blows in, power up the FaceTime or Skype or Portal and sit down together to a meal, even if someone is stuck at home or an airport. It will end up becoming a great family story to tell someday.
What about those dang family issues? Uncle isn’t talking to a cousin. Aunt insists on bringing a green Jello dish that hasn’t been on the menu since 1976. Grandpa wants to loudly pontificate about his politics as he downs his fifth beer. Grandma wants to help, but she’s just in the way. Mom is resetting your table. Everyone misses Dad. Adult children are at their in-laws’ holiday meals, again. I don’t really have any great fixes to the family crap, but breathing helps. And yoga. And meditation. And that bottle of Chardonnay, but that’s just me. If you end up finding the magic elixir to solving it all, let me know. I’ll pay you for your services.
I guess the bottom line is to channel your inner Elsa and “let it go.” Let go of expectations that everything should be a picture postcard of what you think the holidays should be, and instead just smile. If you are a young parent, just enjoy the chaos. It goes by so damn quickly. If you are a teenager, remember to put down your phone and offer to help your parents around the house. You’ll be gone from their home soon enough. If you are an empty-nester and things aren’t what they used to be, create new traditions. If your kids can’t come to you, go to them. Or take a trip by yourselves. Lounge on a beach. Climb a mountain. Don’t be rigid. Have fun.
For the past few years, my husband and I have taken a long walk or hiked on either Christmas Eve or Christmas Day, depending on when our families decide to celebrate. We laugh, snap a few pictures, get lost, and find ourselves during these expeditions. This year we plan to head to Forest Park again on Christmas Eve to commune with the bears at the zoo, and then have lunch and a few drinks at the Boathouse. Our tradition. Our joy.
I hope you find yours.
“I once wanted to become an atheist, but I gave up – they have no holidays.”
– Henny Youngman
by Christie Shumate McElwee
As October rolls into November, I always find myself searching for Barry Manilow’s song “When October Goes.” His melancholy interpretation offers plaintive sighs for October, those golden days of autumn, because when October does go, the cold days of winter settle into short days and dark nights. Manilow’s version is heart-wrenching in its unplugged simplicity, with only him at the piano. He sings of happy children coming home from school under a twilight sky, and as he dreams of a long, lost love, he turns his head to hide those “helpless tears.”
When I dug deeper into the story of “When October Goes,” I discovered the lyrics were part of an unfinished ballad by lyricist Johnny Mercer who wrote “Moon River,” “Days of Wine and Roses,” and “Autumn Leaves.” After he died, his widow arranged to give some of her husband’s unfinished lyrics to Manilow, hoping he would be able make them into complete songs. Working with the words, he wrote “When October Goes,” which was released as a single in 1984. Many other artists have covered the song, including Rosemary Clooney and Nancy Wilson.
“When October Goes” perfectly captures my own melancholy feelings this time of year. Thanksgiving is a few weeks away. Red and green decorations already fill store aisles. Christmas movies have been flooding the Hallmark Channel for weeks. My anxiety begins its ascent as I fret about holiday details. Who is going to host the meals? When will we celebrate? Who will be able to attend? Who will miss again? What traditions do we cling to and which do we let go? How many strings of lights won’t work when we begin to decorate? Do I bake pumpkin or apple pies? Cookies? What is the calorie count of one Thanksgiving meal? How will we stretch our budget this year? As the holiday season ramps up, I find myself longing for those lazy October days, driving through the countryside admiring the brilliant red and orange leaves, and then stopping at a local winery for sips and conversation.
The lyrics of “When October Goes” remind me that it is acceptable to mourn the passing of seasons, because it parallels the inevitable changes in our lives. Nothing remains the same. Children grow older. Gray hair appears. Loves are lost. Loves are found. Beloved pets die. Home are sold. New home are purchased. Traditions evolve. The magic of music appears when a well-crafted song gives us permission to cry over all of these emotions. The tears offer solace, helping us honor our own melancholy. We love and acknowledge how it often hurts, but then we breathe and begin to embrace our messy, complicated, painful, yet beautiful lives.
But I must admit, I still hate to see October go.
“I should be over it now, I know
It doesn’t matter much how old I grow
I hate to see October go.”
~Mercer and Manilow
by Christie Shumate McElwee
On a corner in the middle of our neighborhood sits a busy hub where people gather for coffee and conversation. Big windows flank the street side, letting in lots of light, even on a gloomy day. Big, comfy chairs and tables invite customers to stay awhile, but some make a quick run for a to-go cup before work or school. There is always time for a few friendly words with the baristas, especially Donna, who is head diva in the morning. Remembering almost every customer’s name, she pours coffee, coos with babies, and nods and smiles at all who enter the door.
This is The Bridge Coffee House, a non-profit spiritual ministry plopped down on a side street in New Town, a community in St. Charles, Missouri. It was founded by partners in the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America and the Reformed Church in America. An inclusive ministry, it welcomes all. The young pastors spend a year here as part of their liturgical training. All are enthusiastic, knowledgable, kind, and passionate in their mission for justice in the world. Donations are collected for local schools, and every month a portion of the tips go to different charities. This month’s will be sent to help with hurricane relief in the Bahamas.
Almost every day there are groups who meet for book clubs, euchre, dominoes, tutoring, and story-time. On Sundays, a casual church service is held. Teens gather after school. Young parents attempt to visit while their children play with books and toys in the back room. A small fair trade store flanks the side wall in front of the counter. With its free wifi, the coffee house often looks like a shared work space with people hunched over laptops conducting their business. On some warm summer nights there may be a singer/guitar player in the corner of the back room, serenading customers and neighbors walking by with their dogs and strollers.
After moving to New Town over two years ago, I discovered The Bridge on my second day in the neighborhood. I was thrilled to have a coffee house three blocks from my home. Soon after I began attending the Wednesday morning book club discussion where I met women who welcomed me into their group and hearts. We have delved deeply into difficult topics. Not all of us agree, yet there is a solemn pact to respect our differences. While our group meets in the back, there are also women who play euchre in the front. Helen, a card player, always waves at me as I order my coffee. Sometimes we hug and exchange a few words. I love this woman. Some mornings I just sit with my coffee and journal as I attempt to scratch out a few words.
Lately The Bridge has incurred a series of big ticket expenses. Over the past few months, the espresso maker, iPad payment system, ice maker, commercial kitchen faucet, and coffee grinder have had to be either repaired or replaced. In order to raise funds for these unexpected costs, a Go Fund Me page has been set up with a $15,000 goal. If you are feeling generous, donate a few dollars. I’ve included the link below.
On my own spiritual journey, I no longer attend traditional church. I find the sacred in many things: nature, friendships, family, yoga, books, music, and of course, pie. The Bridge, though, has provided me with a unique fellowship, and I am grateful for everything is does for our community. This little coffee house is the engine that keeps us all running on caffeine and camaraderie. It is our heart.
“I have measured out my life in coffee spoons.” ~T.S. Eliot
Last week I heard part of an interview with Marc Cohn, the singer/songwriter who wrote “Walking in Memphis,” a song with one of my favorite lyrics, “Tell me are you a Christian, child?” “And I said, ‘M’am, I am tonight.’” He spoke about the spiritual experience he had during that visit to Memphis when he was in a low place in his life. “Bluer than a boy can be.” He attended Rev. Al Green’s church, sat down to play piano with Muriel at The Hollywood, and spotted the ghost of Elvis walking up to Graceland. His walk through Memphis changed him. He was asked by the interviewer how he reflected upon this so-called “Christian” experience as a Jew. Cohn responded, explaining that spiritual experiences don’t have to be about religion. They can come from something or somewhere or someone that touches our hearts and lifts us off the ground. “Was walking with my feet ten feet off of Beale.”
I began to ponder my own spiritual experiences, none of which have centered around church or scripture or organized religion.
Last winter on a frigid January morning, I drove out to the bird sanctuary to see the eagles. When I got there, I saw not just one or two, but over a hundred bald eagles, huddled on the ice. I could spot birds sitting in trees, grabbing fish from holes in the ice, and a few soaring through the air. I couldn’t breathe, it was all so beautiful. I remember texting a friend, sharing with her what I was seeing. I had my binoculars, but I only took a few photos because an iPhone picture wouldn’t have captured the awe, the sheer wildness of it all.
Eight years ago my son Jack and I went out to San Diego to visit my oldest son Christopher and his girlfriend (now wife) Kaitlin. On one of the last nights of our visit they took us to a sushi place in La Jolla and after dinner we wandered close to the water. They said we needed to walk out to this peninsula where the sea lions slept. In the darkness, Jack and I tiptoed down and stood among these snoring beings. We were so close we could smell their breath but saw only shadows. We looked at each other and knew we had shared a sacred moment together on that California coastline.
Sometimes my husband and I have these perfect weekends. Nothing is planned or scheduled. We may eat breakfast out, take a long walk, listen to music as we sip wine and prepare dinner. Simple things. Joyous moments. Spiritual in its lack of anything momentous. We don’t go looking for it, life just hands us something intangible and pure.
I’ve experienced it in books, when I read words that catch my breath with their beauty and truth. I find myself gasping and placing my hand over my heart, hoping to hold onto the moment, the clarity of the prose, the gift the author gave me.
After a spring trip down to Gulf Shores a few years ago, I talked my husband into taking a detour so I could see Monroeville, Alabama, the childhood home of Harper Lee, the author of To Kill a Mockingbird. As I sat up in the courthouse balcony, I could hear Reverend Sykes telling Scout, “Miss Jean Louise? Miss Jean Louise, stand up. Your father’s passin.’” And I could see Atticus walking down the aisle, head up, knowing he would have to explain difficult truths to his children. It was probably one of the most spiritual moments I have had in my life, sitting in that recreated courthouse, hearing the voices of fictional characters swirling through my head.
“Tell me are you a Christian, child?” “And I said, ‘M’am, I am tonight.’” To me, this lyric isn’t about religion. Marc Cohn, instead, wrote about how certain moments in our lives bring us closer to what we can’t explain. The wonder. The mysterious. The divine. Some of us may find them sitting in church, yet mine have always been outside those walls, on cold days or warm beaches or in the pages of my favorite books. I have discovered unexpected sacred spaces, and I am grateful for their gifts of authenticity and grace and astonishment.
“M’am, I am tonight.”
(to remind myself)
Inspired by Wendell Berry’s “How to Be a Poet (to remind myself). Poem below.
Honor your morning. Have a routine. Make it meditative. Grind the coffee beans. Steep the tea. Sit in silence. Forgo screens, if possible. Do not grab phone the minute you get out of bed. Jot down random thoughts in journal. Bask in the early morning sounds: cat’s sleepy moans, children’s chatter on their walk to the bus stop, geese honking, construction trucks rattling down the road. Read Mary Oliver poems and breathe her words. Greet the day.
Know gratitude. Do not obsess over what you do not have. It takes up too much space. Instead fill your head and heart with what is here now. Be thankful for coffee and husband and friends and a good meal and fine wine. Oh, and desserts…a slice of apple pie, Bella Vino’s ooey gooey butter cake with cinnamon ice cream, warm chocolate chip cookies, brownies. Always brownies.
Exercise. Walk mindfully. Turn off the music and podcasts and walk in quiet. Hear what is presented. See the trees, especially now as leaves are turning red and orange. Practice yoga with mind and body. Feel each pose. Quiet the ceaseless chatter in your head.
Make meal preparation moving meditation. Chop with purpose. Stir and taste deliberately. See it all come together. Set the table. Light a candle. Put on music. Enjoy.
Pick one small, daily goal. No phone. Write. Exercise. No meat. Eight glass of water. No news. Read at night instead of television. Read a classic. Read for fun. No alcohol. Text or call a friend or family member. Don’t kick yourself over failures of long term goals. Glory in the accomplishment of what you did today.
Let go of things you have no control over. Worry eats you alive. Allow mistakes to be made. Let go and see what happens.
Listen to old and new music. Really listen. Hear the instruments, the vocals, the lyrics. Know that music is medicine.
Honor your sacred space. Be a fierce gatekeeper. Do not allow anyone in who violates this space with untruths, negative energy, or constant complaining or blaming others for mistakes they created. Protect this sacred space with your life.
Own your mistakes. Ask forgiveness, and then offer to make things better. Move on. Accept you are human. Messy. Damaged. Broken. Stitched back up. Beautiful. Luminous. Transcendent. Decent and good.
How to Be a Poet (to remind myself) by Wendell Berry
Make a place to sit down.
Sit down. Be quiet.
You must depend upon
affection, reading, knowledge,
skill – more of each
than you have – inspiration,
work, growing older, patience,
for patience joins time
to eternity. Any readers
who like your poems,
doubt their judgment.
Breathe with unconditional breath
the unconditioned air.
Shun electric wire.
Communicate slowly. Live
a three dimensional life;
stay away from screens.
Stay away from anything
that obscures the place it is in.
There are no unsecured places;
there are only sacred places
and desecrated places.
Accept what comes from silence.
Make the best you can of it.
Of the little words that come out of the silence, like prayers
prayed back to the one who prays
make a poem that does not disturb
the silence from which it came.
I find myself pondering grace on this most solemn of days. I know I have written words on the subject before, but this word, this state of being, draws me into its possibilities. Often I think about what grace is not, yet that isn’t grace.
So…what is grace?
It is being there for a friend in her pain or grief or loneliness.
Grace is understanding.
It is kindness, a smile, a compliment.
Grace is letting go of past resentments, of anger, of mistakes made.
It is sitting in silence.
Grace is seeing people, moving in closer.
It is a presence. It is humility. It is acceptance over judgement.
Grace is a rainbow, a wash of colors across a sky as the sun peeks out after a storm.
It is always learning, always opening a new page, always seeing the potential.
Grace is seeing our differences as the beautiful wonders they are.
Grace swirls around as I stumble. It ignores my clumsiness and awkward actions. It is there, waiting as I trip over my anger, my envy, my stubbornness, my overblown ego. It finds me, even when I am not looking.
Grace is the truth. Grace is an open door. Grace is a seat at the table. Grace is thank you.
Grace is admitting I have been wrong, and offering ways to mend it. Saying, “I’m sorry. What can I do to fix it?”
Grace is acknowledging my brokenness, my scars. Seeing the beauty in the cracks. As Leonard Cohen wrote, “It’s a cold and it’s a broken Hallelujah.”
Grace is my husband’s hand in mine…the sound of our grandchildren’s voices…a phone call or text from one of our adult children, just wanting to catch up…spending time with dear friends, swapping stories and listening to all of our joys and heartaches…sitting on our front porch swing, grateful for the peace it brings.
It is pie
and coffee with cream
and grilled cheese sandwiches
and warm chocolate chip cookies.
It is hanging onto hope when all is lost.
It is love.
Personal photographs can be powerful entities. Instantly we are transported back to the moment the camera flashed. Silly grins. Outdated fashion. Awkward personal space. When we look at old pictures, we squint and ask ourselves, “Did I really look like that? Was I ever that young? Was I ever that innocent?” Old photographs may give us warm fuzzies, but they also require us to come to terms with past feelings of hurt and anger. There are people staring back at you who have hurt you, torn your heart apart. Time, though, has given you a gift. With age, you realize you also inflicted pain. Your regrets consume you. And as you gaze at these faded photos, you decide to let go, releasing the resentment you’ve hung onto for years. You begin to forgive others and yourself. You remember the sweet joy, the giggles, the softness that surrounded the moments in the photographs.
A few weeks ago when I was visiting my mother, she brought out some pictures from my first wedding. “Do you want these?” she asked, “Because, if not, I’m throwing them away.” As I flipped through them I said, “Yes, I’ll keep them.” At first she looked a little shocked, but I said, “Mom, these are important. The formal album was lost in the divorce, and you possess the only copies left. Maybe the boys will want these some day. And man, look how cute I was back then!”
Later, after I return home, I spread the photos on our table. Taken almost thirty years ago, I spy glimpses of youth, of promises made, of hope. I remember my dad walking me down the aisle of Westminster Presbyterian Church, acting as though it was the red carpet as he smiled at all the assembled guests. I am reminded of how Bill and I giggled through the ceremony. I see the faces of my dear friends, most of whom are still extraordinary people in my life. Snippets of the reception float through my consciousness: our first dance, my dad enjoying the band, my mother’s smile, Aunt Bug and Uncle Jack, Bill’s parents, all of our friends, and the happiness of that day.
As I am perusing the pictures, I notice another one my mother had added. It is a formal photo from my sister’s wedding the next year. Staring back at me is us: Bill, me, and two month old Christopher. With a tilt of the head, I was transported back to the fog and joy of those first few months of parenthood. Onesies and formula and sleepless nights. Bill falling asleep on the couch with Chris on his chest. Our dreams of the future all wrapped up in this little human being. I see our family.
I begin to breathe, to forgive, to let go. Selfishly, I no longer want to feel the weight of it all. It requires too much energy to hold on to the old shit. I am lighter, almost floating with the freedom. Herman Hesse once wrote, “Some of us think holding on makes us strong, but sometimes it is letting go.” I am releasing into the universe all that I used to clutch and scream “Mine!” if anyone dared question it, because you see, I no longer require any of it. Most importantly, I am forgiving myself. I am stronger than my resentments, my anger, my gripes.
For now the photos will be tucked away in a drawer, but I am grateful for their gifts: reminders of joyful moments and the wonderful liberation that comes with letting go.