Solstice

My mother was diagnosed with terminal lung cancer her 59th year, and given a year to live if she opted for treatment, six months if she did not.  She did not.

My mother didn't want to be remembered as 'sick' or dependent, and she didn't want the end of her life to disrupt wherever her children were in theirs.

During her last six-months she reconciled the things that needed reconciling, and answered to any individual needing to address unfinished issues with her.  She was the best rendition I ever saw of herself during those months, and I still haven't completed my understanding of what I witnessed.  It was magnificent.

She also divided her meager assets during that time, and thoughtfully assigned each item to a family member, or friend.  I learned more about life, and what's possible, from my mother, and her final two seasons than I have in the accumulated learnings of the remaining fifty-one and a half years I've been here.

Solstice  

My mother chose to die on December 21st, just as her Father had, and as her second husband, Jack, had barely a year before.  I loved the faith behind her selected passage, and the trust embedded in the two men she'd helped through the same portal.  More importantly, I loved the symbolism of her transition, and it's coincidental relationship with the Winter Solstice, the longest night of the year.  I have entered the depths of that night each winter solstice since, to pay proper homage.

Before that final passage, there was a final trip to the mall.  One last Christmas gift for each child.  For her oldest son, a comprehensive letting go, and genuine faith in his ability to stand on his own despite the demons.

For her youngest, Pewter & Crystal goblets for he, and his future, still faceless bride, to toast with on their wedding day. 

For her only daughter, the children's book "On The Day You Were Born", and the instruction to read it aloud to her first born child when he, or she, finally arrives.

And, for her second child, the one who had been called away from himself and his journey so often, a metaphor.  For this child, an industrial, metallic black Mag-Lite Flashlight with a single beam of light, and a prayer that he find his way back, out of the darkness he'd been left in.

I am that child.

The poetic nature of her symbolic gift has never been lost on me.  Neither has the doubt that accompanied it, or the uncertainty that it could penetrate the black that separated me from myself, and myself from the rest.  

No matter.  For the first time in my life someone in my family acknowledged that their need for whatever I was able to offer had cost me the journey I'd been promised, and the identity it was designed to produce.

Even more importantly, the family member making contrition wanted me to know that the only direction I was obligated to follow was the one that promised to embrace me, and was awaiting my arrival.

Even if that direction took me away from home.

Her apology was offered through a single beam of light, and a six-month apprenticeship on how to let go of what you know in order to approach what is waiting.

She gave life when she birthed me.

She gave it again when she modeled the courage required to leave me, and her children, behind. 

She asked my forgiveness, and hoped I'd find a new direction.  Then she left without concern for my reply. 

She knew I'd become lost because I didn't want others to be.  And she knew that when everyone found their horizon, which they did, I wouldn't be able to see my own, and I'd need guidance.

Sometimes darkness is so deep, and so cold, that being alone in it confuses a dying light with sunshine.  Every move you make trying to save your life may actually be the one that ends it. Eventually, it's clear that the only chance of emerging depends upon your being led.  If you don't have a guide to help you, you better have something to draw upon, or someone who has gone ahead.

You'll need a single, focused beam of light to get you out when you find yourself at the center of the longest night of your life.

Stewart  'Broken Arrow'